Eyepatch in the Suit
by WhiteGloves
Summary: A spy-retrieval mission gone wrong and we have Mycroft and Sherlock caught amidst the maritime war of real pirates and governments while fighting to survive without starting another world war. Sherlock doesn't mind but with Mycroft's identity in the line, even the consulting detective has to have a survival plan. And not just for one. How are they going to swim out of this piracy?
1. Jolly Roger

***Eyepatch in the Suit***

 ** _by: Whitegloves_**

 _DISCLAIMER: On facts and characters. Its all my spirit Sir Conan Doyle~ and Moftiss!_

 _a/n: Why is it when I see a picture of Mycroft I just hopelessly... *smacks face*_

"You're an addict." _Sherlock whispers._

 ** _Enjoy the story! :)_**

* * *

1\. Jolly Roger

* * *

It was intoxicating, _the smell of the filthy lot._

Overcast smokes in the air filled any clear lungs inhaling clouds of gray and black that tasted crudely of gas, perspiration, drugs, waste and other deadly elements congesting the nostrils.

Sea of heads bobbed and dipped up ahead, an overflowing stream of people, all hidden under cloths of anonymity, too thick and bundled as they rubbed elbows and swirled around obstacles of thousand shadows all milling together in a place where anyone could be anyone save themselves.

Shouts and cries make common with echoes of voices buzzed in that almighty swell of humanity gathered in one corner of the earth where merchants and more merchants meet and traders and more traders trade surrounded by dirty white buildings of nothing but paralleled empty windows and rusty upper tiers…

A place in contrast of that in London, yet extremely familiar as how black markets are…except that this one was in _Middle East._

 **He** slipped into the crowd donning his long _thawb, mishlah_ and head _keffiyeh_ to protect his dark curls with a dark mask around his face. He felt the warmth of those bodies pressing hard against him under the height of the sun. There was no space yet he moved like the rest, in waves and pattern as if dragged by another, eyes casting and pulling away from objects they saw and void of choice to halt and fight the motion. In an environment where everyone has every reason to act suspicious, not one stood out.

Everyone was like him: _gaunt and serious_. Everyone moved with rigor and purpose.

1, 476 hours, 480 minutes and 53 seconds since the last time he had made direct contact with his target. 738 hours, 108 minutes and 57 seconds since it was declared said target was found. 336 hours, 18 minutes and 43 seconds since he set foot in the small town of Aden in Middle East where he now stood surfing through the throng of bodies trying to locate the missing target he was told of much importance to the Government. A spy caught amidst a mission called _Jolly Roger_ now in need of retrieval. He was told it was equal to receiving all honors but he was not one to accept decoration for an elaborate act. It was all about the thrill of the mission.

 _The preparation, the countless number of endings and possibilities, the action… above all, a payback._

He stepped into the final part of his design feeling the excitement under his very skin. He moved hurriedly away from the throng and ended in a narrow alley surrounded with red walls. Then his wrist watch vibrated and he knew he was closing in. _Locked on_ , as the satellite review buzzed on his GPS and a familiar voice spoke under the covers of his head dress where his miniscule communicator was attached on his ears said:

 _On your left, Sherlock._

Sherlock casually halted and looked behind him. No one seemed to mind another suspicious folk out of the rope of people. Clearly, he was not the only one as others walked pass him with glares and grim nature that spoke volume of their current occupation as notorious thieves and killers but no conflict rose. He then turned and pressed his back on the nearest wall like it was the most mundane thing, then peered out on the corner to his left.

He first saw them clustered outside a tavern with its entrance covered with thick ragged, heavily sewed linen in front of a sand colored building. Five of them. Geared with high caliber weapons hidden under the covers of their own robes, their thick hands obviously on constant hold of each machinery, he observed their appearance, their quirks, their body language, their interactions. How their eyes flitted in the surrounding like hawks trying to catch their preys. He hid a little away, but enough to still do his surveillance. They too moved with purpose. They too moved with vigilance and caution. They spoke in their own language and waited like what they were supposed to do. It added more minutes to his already accumulating hour track.

But Sherlock was sure it was them this time. _Somalian Pirates._

Then the tavern blanket was pushed from the inside—and another man came out wearing the same fashion of that his comrades. He spoke to them in the same language and seemed to give direction as his companions nodded to his every word. The man seemed unaware that he was being watched. Unaware even that his watcher was slowly closing in as he spoke to his men with severity etched on his features hidden under the thick bundle of his turban.

 _"Day after tomorrow, we move to the West."_ he said in fluent Somali language, with an edge on his tone. Sherlock had stopped just behind the men surrounding the speaker and pretended to be reading the poster papers of undesirable criminals hanging on the tavern wall. He could barely hear the rest of his words but was alert enough to keep an eye on their movements. Especially when they moved. He saw all of them nod again and began walking away, their faces contorted into seriousness with all intention of mingling in the crowd.

But Sherlock had turned and tried to have eye contact with the speaker by cursing aloud as he pretended to tear a poster away from the message board. He felt them all stop and knew five guns hidden under their clothing were all pointed at him but he continued his act—and proceeded to throw the torn poster on the ground and performed disgust on it by stepping on its face. Then he glared at the men behind him, expecting to see his target to be looking his way— _just to make him know he was there—_ but it was all disrupted when shrill shouts followed by screams erupted from the crowd on their far left. Sherlock just had time to see what was happening before he turned back—saw his target's attention shift on the chaos—saw his men move away to check out as well, which opened access to his much-awaited final act.

 _Sherlock dared reach his hand to his target—ready to grab him and take the opportunity to finish the mission once and for all._

But almost inevitably, his target was pulled away by the armed men as if it was a protocol when it became clear the panic-stricken crowd was heading their way. The target in turban was then shielded and lead away by the five men as Sherlock tried to catch up to them but was overran by the mass of bodies that trampled the same ground. The next thing he knew as he tried not to be swept by the wave—he pushed himself to stand steadily on the nearest wall where he clutched on a wooden pole holding a tent roof so as not be involved in the stampede— Sherlock saw his target's group was gone.

Pulling the thin linen away from his face, he grinded his teeth and pressed the communicator on his ear.

"I lost them."

There was a cracking sound of the service radio.

 _"Don't worry, they're still under track if you just follow your radar."_ Came a brisk response.

"Interesting." Sherlock muttered more to himself as the crowed persisted on the disorder and he remained attached to the wall. The crowd was starting to disperse but violence was still visible to some.

 _"What is?"_

"Our man… he's only been with them two months and he's acting like the ring leader."

 _"What? Seriously?"_

"You think I won't know when I saw them with my own eyes, John?"

Silence followed his statement but Sherlock's eyes continued to glint at what he just witnessed. His target was waited upon, his target was listened to and above all, his target's safety seemed to be a priority as well. No one who saw it would doubt the man's rank among his fellows.

Then John Watson spoke again from the other end of the line.

 _"How else d'you expect your brother to operate?"_

The consulting detective, now undercover agent nodded with sharp look in his eyes as indeed—resulting with unbelievable turn of events— his brother, _Mycroft Holmes_ who owns a minor position in the British Government, and who was indeed _T_ _he Government_ now turned as captive to the Somalian pirates. Only that, _he doesn't seem to be one to act as the damsel in distress in this one._

On the contrary it seemed he was the villain.

Sherlock could just remember his older brother's image coming out of the tavern wearing his tacky linens but possessing the same brilliance as the mastermind behind Britain all the same turned a _kingpin to a rouge of pirates. What are the odds…_

 _How else was Mycroft expected to operate he asked?_

"Yeah. Surprisingly like that."

 _"So, what's your plan?"_

"Get in the ship. Declare war to the pirates and take the boss back home before he has too much fun. How else am I to do it? _I'm gonna be a pirate!"_

* * *

 ** _-To be Continued-_**

* * *

 _A/n: Oooh... Dream come true haha._

 _B_ _it bloody in the middle but that's what pirating is all about o.O_

 _Will run a couple of chapters 6 at most ;)_

 ** _Thank you for reading again my whimsical stories~_**


	2. Marco Polo

***Eyepatch in the Suit***

 ** _by: Whitegloves_**

 _DISCLAIMER: FACTS are FACTS and Fictions are Fictions_

 _a/n:_ Yet doesn't mean we can't have both! I love incorporating these stories _!_

 ** _Enjoy the story! :)_**

* * *

2\. Marco Polo

* * *

Nobody knew how the row started. But their parting wasn't as touching as normal siblings would have.

1,476 hours, 480 minutes and 53 seconds ago…

 _"No, no one will be raising any parking tickets fee. Not yet and that's final." Mycroft hung up on his phone and turned to the occupants of 221B where John had just sniggered from his chair while Sherlock was on his mobile, unresponsive. The night was young, but here was the British Government gracing the two occupants with his unneeded presence, as Sherlock had casually commented before his brother while the fireside blazed its warmth. John's reaction to his phone conversation however was the one that got Mycroft to raise an eyebrow._

 _"What seems to be funny, Doctor Watson?"_

 _"You're still in charge of simple parking ticket decisions?" he looked amused._

 _Mycroft—who was left standing beside the door of Sherlock's flat awkwardly in his dark overcoat, three-piece suit and obligatory umbrella—wasn't as happy and this was seen as how his witty eyes turned cold and the forced smile on his lips appeared when he spoke next— "Oh, I'm sure you understand something so simple— if the administration initiated this proposition then it shall make an outstanding impact on the traffic control. The Parliament will have to modify our Safe Street Act rigorously but more importantly, other trends on street crime will be highlighted by the media that will increase the insecurity citizens are already feeling, causing people and government officials to focus their attention on street crime problem of other scale. Not to mention the dramatic press coverage of street crime stories, the proportion of citizens that will claim which crime the government should prioritize that will end in cabinet decisions and hearings. Plenty of it. And before you know it our federal crime policy will change in a major way."_

 _He paused for the effect, seeing John's face turn blank and not a single drop could be heard in the silence that followed. Nobody had asked him to sit down, and frankly it didn't seem like Mycroft wanted to stay long too. Sherlock had been busy on his mobile and couldn't even lift his eyes up. John was in the same room with the sleeping Rosie on his arms as he sat on his spot in 221B with mouth now hanging open with the older Holmes' every word._

 _Mycroft then continued with patience paper thin, "I'm sure you are also aware of the punctuated budgetary commitment that shall be a consequence. It is a classic pattern: public attention to crime will soar; press coverage will mainly focus on the drama; and the Parliament will schedule hearings. The issue will leave the normal subsystem home, with incremental adjustments, and will have gone far to the realm of macropolitics. The government will pass another major law, which will leave increase of money spent but I'm sure you understand the politics of equilibrium and monopoly given the way you laugh at my parking ticket issue."_

 _He ended his note crisply, not satisfied with John's stumped expression. It wasn't why he was there._

 _"You talk too much." Sherlock's exasperated tone came to the rescue of his best friend and turned his surly eyes to the visitor. "What do you want anyway?"_

 _The older Holmes stood rigidly with a waning smile._

 _"I'm going away. Indefinitely."_

 _Sherlock took his time in responding, John even thought he would not answer at all._

 _"Will it affect me in anyway?" came the abrupt response from the younger Holmes indifferently._

 _"The question is how it would affect the country in anyway with you unsupervised." was his smart response, but John had noted the stillness in his voice._

 _"You're obviously here to pick a fight." Sherlock smirked, eyes staying to his brother._

 _"Yep." John muttered in agreement._

 _"Normally it is one-sided." Mycroft pressed on. "And it's not my hobby to pick anything with anyone, I have other engagements."_

 _"Ironic that you're here. You think I can afford to waste time when my hands are full?" Sherlock's voice was languid and knowing his best friend, John just knew sarcasm was lying underneath there somewhere. Then the detective raised his dark eyes up to his brother again and added, "With our sister in need of my attention and everything."_

 _Mycroft stared back at him blankly, except for the casual raise of both his eyebrows. The event in Sherrinford was fresh in their minds but nobody needed to say the exact meaning implied. They were all there. But the older Holmes was on his auto-pilot mode behavior Sherlock most detested as the older Holmes nodded—_

 _"Good. I was hoping that was enough to keep you busy."_

 _"Keep me busy?" Sherlock's tone suddenly erupted as if insulted, his eyes flashing at the older Holmes, the contempt in his voice unconcealable and John doesn't blame him— months passed in Sherrinford with singular result and the responsibility was finally weighing in and sinking deep. Their sister was the same puppet that played the violin in mimicry while Mycroft was of no help whatsoever. "You're supposed to take care of her too, you know. You haven't made an appearance in the past weeks. Put some effort into it, you're slipping."_

 _"Well, I'm not a doctor, am I?" Mycroft made a face, "and I don't play the violin so I don't see the point—"_

 _"It's the thought that counts." John pointed with a sigh, still unable to believe he had to spell everything for the idiot. Mycroft glanced at him as if sensing his unsaid words and said rather sternly—_

 _"If it's thoughts, Doctor Watson I'm afraid I've beaten both of your head put together."_

 _"Mycroft!" Sherlock harshly bellowed—_

 _"Eurus is not the only one that needs attention, Sherlock." Mycroft came severely and John had to stand up with the sleeping Rosie as he knew voices would be raised in the next instant and he wasn't wrong. He retreated to the bedroom to keep his child from the banter—but not before he heard Sherlock's livid voice—_

 _"For f-ck sake, Mycroft, straighten your priorities, she's your sister!" He did say a lot of things before the doctor came back to hear the older Holmes head smacking reply—_

 _"You're being a child." Mycroft wasn't backing down but the unaffected coolness of his voice was the one that got both Sherlock and John to feel even more aggravated. "She's in a safe zone, unable to harm anyone while the business I need to conclude is critical. She won't even notice me even if I did—"_

 _"Whose fault do you think that is?"_

 _The cold atmosphere persevered and John was left forgotten as he stood by the kitchen table with eyes darting from one Holmes to another. He had never seen the brothers argue like this—not even when a gun was in between them. Sherlock looked so fierce and John supports him fully because Mycroft as usual was being a dick. Mycroft on the contrary looked unpretentiously unconcerned that he merely inclined his head in that annoying manner of his, raised his chin and stared from Sherlock to the doctor._

 _"I never expected you to understand anyway. You've been spiraling down with emotions because you are… forgive my word." He sighed calmly. "Limited. And I don't blame you. Its your limitation as I have mine so don't you think we need to both practice what we're good at instead of trying to fix the 'mistake' neither of us can do anything about?"_

 _Sherlock laughed, his dark eyes boring on his older brother mockingly. "You're really some piece of work, you know that?"_

 _Mycroft fell silent, then turned to his watch as he shifted on where he stood._

 _"I don't have time for your 'guilt game', brothermine, this is all in the past, I don't need it."_

 _"And I don't need you at all. Get out."_

 _Mycroft and Sherlock seemed to emit electrical discharge as they exchanged looks._

 _"All right," John shook his head, scratching the back of his neck, "You've said your piece, good night, Mycroft."_

 _Mycroft looked at the pair, before his eyes fell down the floor with some consideration. The next second, however, he was gone. Sherlock rushed at the doorway too and remembered feeling his hands shaking as he grabbed the door and slammed it shut._

That was almost two months ago before disappearing to his mission and Sherlock let him because he had things on his hands apart from building back 221B and taking care of important things for _family_. The consulting detective, now agent remembered the snippet of conversation as he sat quietly in his dusty bed, inside a tattered room in one of the old buildings near the Aden port. He recalled grimly that it was the hotel bombed on 2015 that nearly killed officials of the government who all escaped unharmed with the attack claimed by the ISIS. It was that kind of vacation he had subjected himself in right after being called by the concerned Secret Service of the possible _glitches_ that might compromise his brother's return.

The details of _Jolly Roger_ were quite complex and it was Lady Smallwood who gave him the summary: a spy was able to find the connection of a terrorist cell among the ring leaders of Somalian Pirates and of the coming _'Summit'_ meeting of said ringleaders with terrorist that will transpire soon. The CIA, MI5 and other agencies were aware of such concession going on, but because of the presence of a hundred or more _hostages_ in Somalia, all agencies were threading in deep waters. Soon Mycroft deemed it necessary to do infiltration for something so delicate needed _intelligence only he possesses_ and had been there for two months with results. However, Lady Smallwood could not help but fear the agent's involvement because _Mycroft started acting secretive._

 _"How'd you know?"_

 _"You haven't been working long under a spy agency, Mr. Holmes." Lady Smallwood said strongly and quite convincingly, "This intuition doesn't come merely from guesswork, I've been working with your brother for a long time. What I feel is… he has been giving us progress reports and following his instructions but there are times he puts us in the dark. For instance, he hasn't been in contact for three weeks."_

 _"You don't trust him?" Sherlock's eyes lingered at the agent._

 _"Our work is of mutual benefit than trust. I'm afraid what he's working on is far from his reach if his infiltration has gone deep. For what reason—I cannot know. But my point is—if he has indeed gone too deep he will need someone to lift him up in the surface. Otherwise we will lose him."_

 _Sherlock saw her earnest eyes and narrowed his own. "Why not send your powerful force, you're capable aren't you?"_

 _"Not without raising a war."_

 _Sherlock raised eyebrows and made a face._

 _"So, my part is to retrieve him? That's all?"_

 _"For the benefit of the country, Mr. Holmes, equivalent of honors and decorations. More importantly, he is your brother after all. Don't you feel the need to respond to his emergency call?"_

 _"But he hasn't called. At all."_

 _Lady Smallwood was a woman of strong command and intellect, that was for sure as she said, "_ _So_ _this is me working my intuition that something is going to go horribly wrong if we don't send a subtle reinforcement. We need to retrieve him no matter what the cost."_

Sherlock stood up from the chair as he heard movements from outside the dilapidating lobby. He quietly steered towards the back of the closed door and listened more. _Yes, there were clumsy movements from the outside._ He slowly reached for the door knob, all the while thinking of the involvedness his older brother had found himself in. It was unlike Mycroft to take on risks that he was not one hundred and one percent sure that would work. Yet it was true that out of any agents, if it was an on-field intellect needed, Mycroft Holmes would win the spot on. It proved how delicate the situation was—still it was _unlike Mycroft to drag things this long._

 _"I'm going away. Indefinitely."_

Mycroft who was the god of estimation couldn't give an exact deadline for his disappearance. The consulting detective had noted it before but it didn't seem a big deal then. He was furious with Mycroft. Two months later, his mind couldn't reel off the reason why his older brother would say something so _vague_. Did Mycroft know his involvement will be unpredictable? Going against pirates and possible terrorist cells, it was plausible.

 _Did he continue with the mission despite knowing the possible notion of not returning?_

Sherlock was there to find out. After all, John had mentioned before Sherlock took off from the soil of England: _He's so like you, sometimes. Jumping in the arms of danger when you feel like running away from your emotions._

What was John talking about of all things?

Sherlock turned the handle of the door and opened it wide to be met face to face with a German who was surprised to see him as well. He was carrying a large bag, wearing a casual maroon shirt with Arabic writings on it, and short brown pants. A thick square spectacle on the bridge of his nose and around his neck, at the top of his dark green keffiyeh hang a red _Praktica_ dslr. The German blinked at Sherlock who shook his head once, grabbed the person by the collar and dragged him inside the room. The German protested loudly—cursing in his native tongue till Sherlock responded in the same language and told him to shut up.

When he finally got the attention he needed, he looked the man in the eye and continued in the same tongue—

 _"For an aspiring photographer, you sure are full of guts. I know your plan. It stops here."_

 _"What do you mean? Who are you and what are you doing?"_

 _"Don't play dumb. You plan to be abducted by pirates for fame: you even wore something that would capture their attention. Glad to tell you it's working. You're now under their radar and will most likely be taken right after you come out of the hotel. I should know, I've been following their trails."_

The German looked stunned and gulped at the detective's revelation.

 _"Really?"_

Sherlock smirked. _"Now get undressed and wait here for my backup. You'll be sent home and if your lucky your own government may let your act of treason slip by. If you're lucky. Now hand me everything you own."_

 _"W-what—hey!"_

* * *

A foreigner with curly black hair, wearing a pair of thick square spectacle, maroon shirt, keffiyeh and brown pants came out of the hotel door moments later. He was also carrying his newly owned dslr. The sun was hot up the sky but he shrugged it away as he saw a native wave at him from the corner of the street with a cab waiting for him. Sherlock unhesitatingly followed them and slipped inside the cab, seeing the fellow exchange meaningful looks with the driver before the cab drove away. Now Sherlock was supposed to instruct the man to go to the airport but they both knew that was never going to happen.

Because this was house most foreigners get abducted for ransom in Middle East.

Locals working together to entrap them and deliver them in the hands of pirates, it was purely that easy. It was all about the transaction. Sherlock wondered if that was how his older brother had infiltrated the group of pirates Sherlock soon found to be under one of the strongest war clan in Somalia— _the Sa'ad_. It had been a week since he last saw his brother with the men surrounding him, took him some time to track the whereabouts of the group's local members in Aden and found they were closing in the German reporter whom he found had every intention to be captured.

A week long after and realizing merely grabbing his brother was not enough, so here he was, acting surprised at the ambush awaiting him. _Of course, he knew there was an ambush!_ A pickup mounted with armed men who all jumped off and swarmed the vehicle greeted him, and at that moment, Sherlock braced himself for the inevitable as this was what _infiltration means. To be immersed with the situation by being in the situation,_ so here he was the acting civilian to be captured without a fight. Nothing more effective than letting them think _it was all their plan._

Before he knew it, he was dragged off the cab and beaten, his driver unharmed for obvious reasons, his bag and camera were taken and he was squeezed into the backseat next to three churlish colored men with firearms. Unable to talk and see anything else after getting blindfolded, Sherlock pushed the glasses back at the bridge of his nose and silently waited as the car sped off—hoping against all hope that it would soon lead him to his cunning older brother, who for some reason, happened to be _working with this people._

* * *

Near sundown, the pickup arrived at an outdoor camp at the edge of the town and Sherlock was dragged again by his tied arms and thrown inside one of the low-ceiling shacks that nearly scrapped his head. He knew he was out of nowhere in the middle of the desert and knew there were other captives around him, he felt their presence. He also knew there were other gunmen as sounds of their machinery alerted his sensitive ears and the noise of other pirates talking in their tongue. He could understand a little of it but soon, most of them would speak in rough English with native accent not knew to Sherlock's ears. He felt he was surrounded on the ground, the next thing he felt a foot prodding on his arm.

"This man speak English?" came one of the pirates' hard accentuated voice.

"Not American." Responded another voice. "Where is Marco Polo?"

Sherlock vaguely understood their words as they reverted to their mother tongue and said something about a clan leader's name. The next thing, his blindfold was pulled away and his eyes greeted the fading light of the sun that showed him three men standing around him while on his left three foreigners sat, huddled together in silence.

"You speak English?" one of the thin, brown man asked him whose front teeth was red and decaying.

"Call Marco Polo!" one of the three shouted around his shoulder while Sherlock diverted his eyes at the hostages. Three men with shirts bigger than their frail bodies all looked back at him with precaution, as if warning him of what was to come. The undercover agent easily recognized the Australian hostages as they were on the full report on the _Jolly Roger_ folder, but he sensed their fear and resentment to whomever was called.

"No Marco Polo," another Somalian pirate said with conflicting expression and the three spoke among themselves again, arguing even, before someone took Sherlock by the collar and aligned him with the other hostages before leaving with dissatisfaction.

Sherlock breathed quietly and raised the back of his hand to the bleeding side of his head. The wound was superficial.

"Hey, I doubt you can't speak English." Says one of the Australian men, the taller and much older of the three with graying hair and beard that caught Sherlock's attention. "You better tell them that and not let Marco Polo realized it for you. He is pretty sharp. They'll beat you."

Sherlock sat straight and scanned the man, all the while his mind palace reeling at the name for he had memorized the list of suspected pirates under the Sa'ad clan and the name fell under no category. "Who's Marco Polo?"

An uncomfortable silence fell in the three, till the middle-aged man with sandy hair spoke quite with dislike.

"A very nasty man you don't want to meet. The pirates always talk about it— he's a spy—he gets all the records of the foreigners entering this side of the country and have the militants get funding and even provide the plan of their capture."

"If we didn't know better, he's the guy behind our kidnappings. He's done so for others." The third man with brown hair said grudgingly. "We're reporters and we know these pirates are incapable of thinking… well, you know how they are usually just stupid men with arms… but with Marco Polo working they are just plain scary."

"The man behind all the kidnappings." Sherlock paused, his lips tasting what he had just said, "Interesting… and you're afraid of him because he can get you beaten up?"

The old Australian shook his head, "No, that's not it. Them pirates tell an old story if you get in their good side… of how Marco Polo got one of the hostages killed."

Sherlock stopped. "This Marco Polo…" he said slowly, "Is he a pirate?"

"I'd like to think he is." The third man looked around his companions, "But he's just another foreigner like us. _British_ I think. But he speaks many languages that's why he's their right-hand man. He's their translator."

Sherlock lowered his eyes to the ground as he understood finally.

"He's pretty nasty." The sandy haired man sighed, "He's got this personality I can't explain about him. He's typically just quiet when he's left alone. He isn't guarded as they consider him one of their own. That guy with grey cold eyes."

Sherlock's grey eyes flickered, his lips curving at the unexpected information, though he knew it was never beyond his brother with brains like his. _Yet to harm people…_

Sherlock never felt more desperate to meet Marco Polo in person— because obviously it's much more than meets the eye. Yet the compulsion to go and knock the wind out of him was tempting.

 _You'll be answering to a lot of things, brothermine._

* * *

 ** _-To be Continued-_**

* * *

 _A/n: Thank you for the warm notes :)_

 _Not that I find terrorism or piracy amusing :(_

 _This is just me... finding another reason to be involved with Sherlock and Mycroft!_

 ** _Thank you for reading!_**


	3. Man-O-War

***Eyepatch in the Suit***

 ** _by: Whitegloves_**

 _a/n: I am against violence, so please keep away from it!_

 ** _Enjoy the story! :)_**

* * *

3\. _Man-O-War_

* * *

 _Sherlock woke up at the distant sounds of firing guns, helicopters and screams of raging pirates in the middle of the night. Then soon the sound grew till it was upon them. Standing up quickly, he saw his fellow captives all shouting at one another, grabbing each other and shaking each other's shoulders; already on their feet they braced themselves at the sounds of bombs raining from the sky while wide searchlights came back and forth to lift away the darkness of dawn. Sherlock immediately headed for the blanketed door to look outside and there he saw helicopters' search lights from above, its proximity deafening his ears and wafting his hair. The smell of gunpowder filled his nose as thundering feet shook the ground—and the next moment Sherlock saw a rope ladder fall from the sky right outside the shack's threshold, followed smoothly by a man in combat uniform with his team jumping down all four corners._

 _And then a hand was offered to Sherlock who understood clearly that everything was over._

But he had barely just begun!

* * *

 **12 hours ago...**

Sherlock hadn't seen a single sign of Marco Polo or whoever it was guised by his older brother in another five days that passed by. There was just him, the three Australian men, and the group of the Somalian pirates guarding them in the middle of the desert from dusk till dawn with their weapons and _khat._ Rations of food and water came at least thrice a day for the hostages, in a bundle of plastic that contained cold rice or a piece of bread and a can of tuna. Most of the time they were kept inside the shack, but now and then they would be brought outside to sit by the bushes under the watchful eyes of the armed pirates.

But Sherlock hadn't been idle in those five days. He had been observing the men both day and night too, had already gone through the hobbies, preferences and dispositions, as well as each of his inmates without the need to ask them— but what interested him about the three Australians were the absence of any physical injury or torture marks.

Which was of course not applicable to him as he got beaten down on his very first day.

On his first night, an earnest young man, thin as branch of tree in the middle of the desert, wearing loose clothes and barefoot on the sand but with handset of a rifle on his shoulder came to make an informal announcement of his duty. By then Sherlock still hadn't the inclination to let them know he spoke the global language. He still wanted to make sure he will meet this _translator._

"German," said the grinning pirate, carelessly setting his gun on one side of the tent as he carried a lamp with him, overcasting the shadow that surrounded the prisoners. "you still no understand English?"

Sherlock stared at the man obviously ten years younger than him and decided to speak in German instead.

 _"Was?"_

The Somalian's expression did not change. He kept staring at him blankly, before widening his smile, taking out a green shrub from his pockets Sherlock recognized as _khat_ , a stuffing it on his teeth and gnawing at it. Not unfamiliar to the undercover agent was the plant's characteristic as a stimulant, a kind of drug of cathinone, popular for most natives in these parts of Yemen or Somalia. Its effect, to Sherlock's full knowledge, is short but instantaneous euphoria that the locals consider it to be more important than money, even any other basic needs. He has seen its effect to their fevered eyes, their colored teeth, and their ecstasy upon getting their share of fresh bundles of it. It was their only hobby apart from daily kidnappings, it was their _pastime._

To think that such plant could be cultivated uncontrollably in this land fascinated Sherlock.

All the same, the young Somali was able to present a name.

"Ishaar," he said, pointing to himself and chewing on his leaf, "I talk to you in English. Speak English too." He encouraged the prisoner with a nod of his tiny head. Sherlock shook his head and instead showed his tied wrists to the man. The younger Holmes had noticed the untied hands of his inmates long ago which added to his conclusion that the Somalian pirates weren't terrorizing their captives as they were known to be. Or that the person _in charge of terrorism_ hasn't made any appearance yet. Sherlock was well aware of that.

Ishaar saw his hands, made an acknowledging sound then produced a dagger-like metal from his trouser pockets and cut loose the rope. Sherlock rubbed his wrists and raised curious his eyes to the guard who put the dagger inside his pocket again and grinned at the undercover agent.

"I talk to you now English, German."

Sherlock didn't know if the Somali was sharp, or just plain adamant to believe that all foreigners they capture speak English. And ironic as it was, the man looked both gullible and dangerous at the same time. _Lethal combination._ It was the atmosphere he could read surrounding him— a warzone led purely out of _corporate ideals,_ a _business_ and nothing more for pirates— money opportunity given to the deprived who had no sense of danger so long as they could gain _profit_.

 _It was their profession._

And their trade?

 _Life._

"I speak little English." He finally said, rendering Ishaar to look at him for a moment, before chortling and speaking in loud intonation of his native language as if calling to his friends. Then Sherlock heard stamps of feet from the outside and the two pirates, one extremely lean and tall and the other as young as Ishaar who first brought him in the area appeared. They listened to Ishaar who seemed to be making fun of his co-guards while pointing at Sherlock who clearly understood that he was on the red zone. The two guards glared at him as they understood, and on the next second a butt of a rifle was knocked on Sherlock's jaw that sent his head sideward and his glasses to fly away; the assault joggled his head as extreme pain hit him. Blinking with eyes looking at the ground, Sherlock pulled his gaze to see Ishaar arguing with the tall pirate with hands pointing at the victim. The tall Somali argued back, only to be shoved in the chest by Ishaar. Soon the two guards left the shack while Ishaar made more cursing remarks, before finally turning to Sherlock.

"German, you lie." He grinned smugly.

"I said I spoke little." Sherlock shortly said with regards to his young guard as he took his unbroken glasses from the soft ground, feeling a cut on his lip and spitting blood on the ground. The sore pain on his jaw was beginning to make him cross. "I'd like to speak to your leader."

Ishaar stared at him again, but this time with a sudden look of panic coming over his eyes, and then he shook his head.

"No leader come here now." He said abruptly and left the tent, leaving Sherlock sighing and turning to the men behind him. They were all listening to what was going on with eyes to the new inmate.

"They're scared of the leader, obviously." Sherlock told them, wiping his lip with the back of his left hand, "If they argue over a simple matter of clobbering their hostages, it only means their leader's given direction not to lay hand to any of you. The packages must be left untouched till delivery to the rightful owner with money. In this case, _your government."_

"That pretty much sums it up." Said the man who called himself Johnston, the tallest and oldest of the three Australians. He was one of those hostages who seemed to have adapted and accepted his fate being already on his 50s, "And they give you nicknames too."

"Yeah, they call us according to our nationality, but since we're all from Australia we get to have names like _Trump_ ," he pointed to himself, "cause of the color of my hair, he's Camera man," he pointed to Clarke, the guy with brown hair, "cause he yanked his camera from them before we got abducted and got hit on the temple. See the bruise?"

"And I get to be called Rocky," grinned Johnston passively, "because apparently they had trouble understanding I wasn't called _John_ with another dangling syllable _ston._ They wanted to call me Stone but I said no. So Rocky."

Sherlock stared at the three numbly again, before shaking his head.

"And this… Marco Polo?"

"Who the hell cares?" Morris aka Trump glared.

"He doesn't stay with the hostages, does he?" Sherlock ran his left fingers to his lips, thinking.

"No. He stays on a separate room. And I only hear the kingpin call him Marco." Johnston said with a shrug, "Not sure if it's actually Mark."

"Closer." Sherlock said more to himself as he spat again on the ground again.

"But what's your real name?" Clarke suddenly asked as if only realizing out of the blue to which the undercover agent who after thorough deliberation if he should tell them the German's name on his passport, replied with disinterest:

 _"John Watson."_

Five days forward still had Sherlock on the bushes with the three other captives with his now dried bruised lip, and agonizing impatiently at the absence of one so called _translator._ Nothing was ever happening in the camp, nothing so typical other than the cough attacks of Johnston that no pirate cared about, the missing lunch of the hostages no one seemed to notice and the raised voices of the pirates in their mini disputes over the trifling things like their addiction to _khat_ that once led to a bloody brawl of two Somalians which Sherlock found quite entertaining, and was even hoping guns would go all out. Nothing did because the Somali pirates have an unconditional loyalty for their brother. Sherlock had observed them during their practice of prayer. Solemn as they do it, the undercover agent had little to say about this religion, or any other religion at all. So long as they do not harm helpless people.

Which lead him to think of his absent brother once again.

Mycroft was not helpless, that was pretty much the issue so even if he was harmed, Sherlock would naturally think it was what his brother was asking for when he meddled with state affairs such as piracy. He was powerful. Or someone with influence. From what he gathered from the Australians' description, Mycroft had already connected with one of the kingpins—the chief the Sa'ad pirates—whose name he can still remember from the _Jolly Roger_ folder.

Mohammed Garlack.

Typical Mycroft to play around directly with the big shots. Sherlock could careless of the comments of the other hostages, it was never Mycroft's intention to be in favor of the helpless. It was not Mycroft's job to be shown empathy with his kind of profession. It was not his job to show a singular _care_ to an individual if it would tip the balance of the majority's safety _._ And yet Mycroft Holmes always deliver. It was obvious Mycroft wanted to save the hostages, a hundred of them scattered across the land, yet there may be some sacrifices.

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he buried his eyes on his forearm, feeling the heat of the sun on his nape and wondered whose hands his keffiyeh had fallen together with the bag of the German he had impersonated.

 _"Are you okay?"_

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and saw Johnston leaning over to have a closer look at him.

"Fine." He answered in boredom. _Why was he fine? Why wasn't he running about and destroying this cell?_

Mycroft's glaring eyes flashed in his mind which made Sherlock drop his head on his arm rather aggressively.

"You don't look fine." Came the old man again whose frail arms reminded Sherlock of the old butler in Diogenes.

"Have you seen any hostage feeling any better?" Sherlock snapped.

But Johnston only smiled, his blue eyes twinkling at the spiteful tone. "At least you still got spirit. Situations like this tend to scare anyone and break them quickly."

Sherlock surveyed him. "You don't look broken."

"Ah." The grey-haired man shrugged and scratched his nose. Sherlock wondered if his honest answer was _too complimenting._ "With a man my age, little things can break me."

"I suppose… for someone who has no one waiting for him at home." Sherlock said straightforwardly, then continued before he could even stop himself, "No ring, not even a mark left if taken off—inference unmarried. Too calm within crisis, no apparent comment for family affair, sick but not terminally ill so no reason to hasten ending of life but the fact that you're with two stooges taking risks here in Middle East tells about indifference to any concerned party left behind. There you go, life story."

Johnston blinked in astonishment and Sherlock was not even apologetic, just to get the man off his back.

"I suppose… it's easy to read an old man with nothing to lose?"

Sherlock made no response though he was thinking of something biting but decided against it.

"And what about you? You don't look like someone who regrets being here." Johnston told him quietly, his eyes travelling to the empty plains at the back of the bushes. "In fact, you look like someone whose family's not waiting for you back home—but there ahead of you. Like a man with a mission."

It was Sherlock's turn to stare at the old man but did not respond.

In the end, he only received a pat on the shoulder and Johnston finally left him alone. Sherlock was left staring at him for a moment with a frown. What was the point of thinking of his family when he planned to unite them all in merry old London soon?

* * *

Hours passed again as Sherlock's patience continued to thin at the absence of action.

 _Boredom was an understatement._ He didn't even bother eating his ration, knowing there was no point as minimal energy was only required for captives such as he. Actually, life here was a bliss.

Just then, a sound of vehicle roared from somewhere.

Sherlock and the rest of the hostages all looked up from where they sat and saw a Land Rover drive towards the camp with five heavily armed men all wearing turbans who all came out of the vehicle. They met with Cashim, one of the lower lieutenants Sherlock recalled from his file and who always roamed the camp. There was a brief discussion in tones of commands but what caught Sherlock's attention was a mention of his brother's supposed pseudonym.

He looked up expectantly, more so when he saw the group march towards them. Sherlock felt the other three hostages beside him tensed up too especially when they stopped in front of them. Cashim casually pointed out to Johnston who was then hauled on his feet roughly and dragged towards the rover.

Clarke and Morris were beside themselves, shouting and demanding where the old man was going to be taken.

"He get killed." Cashim said with a glee at the two, while Sherlock watched Johnston's feet disappear inside the vehicle, which then sprang loudly to life and drove away. "He not pay 10 million."

The two Australians both paled at the answer and their voices withered away. Sherlock observed them, before looking back at Cashim who was then joined by the other Somali pirates, one of them was Ishaar who gave a toothy grin.

"German, next."

Sherlock ignored him but sat straight when he noticed two Somalis coming his way. They grabbed him under the arm, pulled him to his feet and then lead him away, not to one of the rovers, but to another side of the camp where a solid stone house stood surrounded by many tents of the other pirates lit by campfires to lessen the coldness of the night. There Sherlock was lead inside, ducking at the blanketed door, the undercover agent was greeted by a lone man sitting cross-legged on the floor wearing a set of expensive linen of black and white with a turban on his head and keffiyeh masking half his face that only his eyes were visible.

Sherlock was forced to sit down but the kingpin's detail was already embedded on his mind. Obviously, the financer at the top of the food chain, one of the ring leaders. _Mohammed Garlack_ was in the house.

"Martin," said Garlack in an apathetic voice behind his scarf, calling the German's name and confirming Sherlock's claim that the German was well researched. Why they could not remember his face, Sherlock pushed his glasses back at the bridge of his nose. Garlack's sleezy eyes strayed at Sherlock, darker and duller than anyone the younger Holmes had seen. "Your head is 20 million."

Sherlock was expressionless. Garlack nodded. "We call Germany tomorrow. 20 million to return home. Or you die."

The younger Holmes waited for the moment, before nodding. Undercover agents need not worry of any ransom. But he had thought Mycroft was going to be around this man, he thought he would find his brother sulking nearby while the kingpin made demands. Sherlock had scanned the whole vicinity along the way, trying to spot anyone taller than most and wearing that grim expression of someone who's already bored with the fishes on his net. But he was nowhere to be found.

A slight alarm stirred at the pit of his stomach. _Where was Mycroft?_

* * *

When Sherlock was returned to where the other hostages were, he laid awake in the darkened shack for hours, unmindful of the curious eyes thrown his way. The two Australians obviously knew where he had been, but his lack of response to their inquisitive eyes made them mutter in agitation while pointing out angrily that the amount subjected to their family and the government was too much.

"We're gonna die here." Morris sighed helplessly, putting both hands on his face.

"We've known that." Clarke told him quietly, "These morons won't get a scrap from our government. Johnston always said this was going to be his graveyard."

"Johnston's old… he's already lived his life." Morris replied lamely.

Sherlock tried to shut other sounds around which he was very good at. Already thinking of his brother's whereabouts something else bothered him after recalling Johnston's arrest. Why he didn't master Somali language was not because of his incapability but lack of time. Still, he would have wanted to know more… because the only words he caught and understood from the shouts and orders of them men in turban who took Johnston was the disturbing message: _Marco Polo. Order. Take Man._

Where would they take Johnston with the rover? To Mycroft, naturally. Which explains his absence… yet why would Mycroft sacrifice another life? Something like this obviously happened before—does that mean his brother was once again deciding to save his undercover mission? A life for lives? Or something else was coming…?

* * *

 ** _Present._**

His sleep was light. Thus, he was easily awakened by the uproar from the outside.

The next thing, Sherlock was faced with a soldier in combat uniform bearing no identification from which organization he was from. All Sherlock saw was the hovering rope ladder in front of him, the screaming Somalis who had been caught, and the continued battle at the other side of the camp where—the younger Holmes knew—Garlack was staying.

When he didn't respond to the agent, he was easily grabbed by the shoulder and was nearly shoved to climb the rope when something else occurred to the detective.

 _No._

 _Something was wrong._

So without ado, Sherlock went out of the way to have the Australians, who were forced to wear protective vest and helmet, climbed first. The younger Holmes then took the soldier by the vest and pulled him aside.

"I'm in UA!" he cried over the loud wafting of the helicopter. "Is the mission over?"

The soldier stared at him from behind his dark goggles, then shook his head. "A little underway. We assaulted three simultaneously. Are you getting off?"

"No!" Sherlock shouted and without a glance to the disappearing bodies above the ladder, he ran—ran towards the battlefield where the other soldiers were still trying to take over. He knew he would be there, he knew there would be people to find, there must be a way to stay—

Running as if to save his life, he dodged soldiers and bullets alike, his eyes scanning the footprints of the Somali pirates—which then lead him to the back part of the numerous tents where he stopped dead.

That was because he just saw a land rover rushing towards the camp, calling its remaining members. Sherlock saw at least ten pirates snuck in hurriedly. They spoke in hiss to one another, calling more to come out—but it was Sherlock who jumped out of the bushes, pretending he was suddenly surprised to find them. The pirates all shouted frantically and pointed in his direction before someone jumped to snag him.

He was shoved inside the rover, between four more Somali who were all in nervous panic. The vehicle moved—and drove nonstop. They drove for several hours, away from the camp till dawn broke and the sun met their pallid faces. From the conversation afterwards, Sherlock understood that the raid was from the Americans, or at least that's what the pirates wanted to believe. They were all very angry, as half of them seemed to have perished in the attack.

The land rover drove across the land till darkness fell again. By then angrier Somali quarreled with each other, while Sherlock remained immobile and silent, but his mind which had been patching the events together could only conclude one thing.

The _Jolly Roger_ contained _four_ main _kingpins._ The soldiers only got three. Which means this was not over.

Mycroft was not one to _leave loose ends._

The land rover stopped at the outskirts of a city near a port. The pirates all poured out and Sherlock was pulled roughly by the arms. He was made to sit in one corner alone without a guard. There seemed to be further things happening that got everyone's attention and sure enough, two pickups drove at the heart of the pirates. From there, men with turbans carrying AK-47 and even grenade launchers poured out, with two kingpins—those who survived the raid and one of them was Garlack— came out angrily, thumping their vehicle's metal door and apparently cursing. The two heads met in the middle while the others surrounded them, in heated remarks that got the low-ranking pawns squirming uncertainly.

Yet, amidst the chaos, Sherlock's eyes shone as he finally found _him._

 _He knew it was not over._

Unknown to all of the Somalis was the presence of the man behind their very crisis. He who stood tall above all their weapons and their ranks while standing in the background with guiltless face; yet his cunning eyes betrayed him. He who had mastered blending in so no one ever thought him remotely responsible for the happenings. The man in the shadows that literally became another kind of _East Wind._

Sherlock suddenly realized once again how insanely dangerous Mycroft Holmes could be. Particularly when he designs the _warzone. A man of war._

 _"Why not ask your Marco Polo?"_

Sherlock was pulled away from his thoughts when another voice spoke. Looking around, he saw a fiendish looking man who was neither a Somali nor from Middle East who was still sitting inside the passenger pickup. He slipped his boots on the ground and stood broad and tall among everyone with tanned skin, clear cut dark hair and heavy set of eyes.

 _An American._

Sherlock ogled at him. He had never seen the man before.

But Sherlock felt it, as so did his brother. How all eyes turned to the sole _translator._

* * *

 ** _-To be Continued-_**

* * *

 _A/n: I am really aiming for a 6 part ONLY xD_

 _Hope to make it more?_

 ** _Thank you for reading!_**


	4. Parley

***Eyepatch in the Suit***

 ** _by: Whitegloves_**

 _a/n: Ye shiver me timbers!_ _Thank you for reading again!_

 ** _Enjoy the story! :)_**

* * *

 _4\. Parley_

* * *

 **Months ago, inside a cold office...**

 _"Alive for all these years? How is that even possible?!"_

Mycroft was staring on his table with a conflicted expression with one arm setup protectively around his middle while his other by his chin, his fingers on his lips. A number of things have had happened in the span of 24 hours and here he was with his parents and only brother inside his secluded office, fresh from the horror of Sherrinford Island and expected to go under interrogation. It did not take less than an hour to communicate with his parents and call them with the utmost importance, telling them directly that it was about their youngest daughter. Their response was immediate. Naturally, they needed not know, but his younger brother insisted that their family matter was no longer on his hands, that wounds of the past could only be healed fully if all of its bloody side has been disinfected from lies.

 _Such poetic notion._

Mycroft had wanted to keep it a secret from them for a little while _until he fixed the conundrum she left him._ His eyes fell on the folder on his desk and dared not touch it. He had been scanning its content when Sherlock and company came and refused to acknowledge its existence for Sherlock was there. He did not hone his brother's keen senses _for nothing._ Had Sherlock sensed he was not in their full attention, _then he would know…_

 _Of a plot designed to finish what their sister had started… something so diabolical Mycroft doesn't even have the leisure to explore the feeling of guilt or shame for his sister's gift to him has surpassed the equation of forgiving._

Oh, but he had to _sympathize_ for now… else his parents wouldn't leave him be. They are in a delicate situation, and just the very sight of him—he could read clearly from his mother's bristling expression and his father's silent disapproval— that they were ready to reject whatever explanation he was to offer. It was fine. _The truth will always be hard to swallow, and humans do tend to distort it to their convenience._ But Mycroft was always careful not to lay the blame.

So he spoke to them of Uncle Rudy's initiative and added _his own_ initiative to follow said plan. He may be a person of secrets, but he was never a liar no matter what others would say, and certainly man enough to take full responsibility of his actions.

 _"I'm not asking how you did it, idiot boy, I'm asking how could you?"_ came the retort.

Mycroft glanced over his father, his ears ringing with the harsh tone, but then had to agree with his mother silently. He could not say he was in anyway proud of his decisions of the past, clearly his actions then were driven by the loss of his sister to madness. The burden on his younger brother too was greater; he feared he would lose Sherlock to the same disease that had plucked his younger sister from their family. That was the moment the brain was left and the heart took the wheel. _Idiot, yes, for only an idiot would care that much. But tried as he might, he could not give what he didn't have._

 _"I was trying to be kind."_ Mycroft told himself quietly. The response he received was no less than he expected. _Rejection._ But rejection can only take hold if one expected to be forgiven. _He didn't._ Nevertheless, his mind whirled at how his mother could not see the logic of trying to spare them the idea that their daughter had turned into a murderer. He told her so and saw her bafflement—because obviously she never saw, or believed her daughter could be so harmful. He was immediately apologetic, not because he saw himself in the wrong, but because she had to find out this way.

Then his father spoke, and being the calm and collected man Mycroft admired, the older brother closed his fists for though his mother may have the little bit of affection he can spare human kind, his father would always have this pedestal to him as the headman of the family whose role Mycroft soon assumed; and his father who was a man of thoughts and who appreciates his children's abilities just like he does with his wife— to speak now was like a bowman ready to shoot an arrow to his non-functioning heart.

His father insisted _she was their daughter_ —a kind notion that suggested acceptance for whatever Eurus was and Mycroft was glad they were not terrified of her. He had underestimated their ability to stand firm with their daughter once, to find that his calculation was correct would set off something inside him— _disappointment._ To find them this concerned, Mycroft was glad his parents were at least _humans._

Yet, the question now remains: _what of Eurus and her last will?_

Even if his parents were set on taking responsibility of their daughter, the government— _he—_ would never allow them consent. He was her legal guardian. And he was, till this day, her older brother. He didn't know why he had to remind his parents that Eurus was still his sister, but he did. They were just not satisfied with the connection.

 _"Then you should have done better."_

Mycroft's eyes flickered and in his mind's eye—he saw a flash of memory of the governor's office after being liberated from his prison cell. It was after Sherlock and John had been found in Musgrave and Mycroft was attended to by the Secret Service. He was shaken at the absence of his younger brother— realizing that Eurus had taken Sherlock somewhere was a nightmare for him, a headache of a new kind. _It was Redbeard all over again!_

So it was such a relief to find out he and John were both alive. Eurus too who was already under the secure hands of his men. What he didn't expect was what his men found inside the governor's office Eurus had been using. On a monitor screen of a computer, an email was sent on a particular name—and once Mycroft's attention was called he realized how catastrophic the leaked data was.

A kind of data that made Mycroft order the arrest of everyone in Sherrinford for an indefinite length of time. A kind of data that made him set aside the family of the fallen victims in the hands of his sister with details of their death unexplained and under the government's name. A kind of data he would have to review even when he was scheduled to have an interrogation by his parents that very afternoon.

 _Because Eurus had jeopardized the safety of each and every British citizen with a single email_. _Everyone Mycroft had tried to protect all his life._ It was her kind of last minute revenge after failing to get killed by their brother's hand.

Clearly, Mycroft should have done better.

 _"He did his best."_ Sherlock's voice floated amidst the admonishment and Mycroft had to look at his younger brother in wonder. On his features, Mycroft saw Sherlock's impassive face, yet he could read the line on his eyebrows—the very same line Mycroft saw on his own forehead when he found Sherlock and John were missing. Was it possible Sherlock too was worried for him during the time they were held in Musgrave and find his older brother not there?

Sherlock was giving him a very funny look. _A tender look._

 _Oh yes, he was._

 _"Then he's very limited."_ Finished their mother.

Mycroft was not afraid of her for nothing.

And perhaps there was some truth there. His limitation had always been his inability to calculate events that involves human functioning of the heart. Uncle Rudy had pointed it out, but the old man had told him it was also one of his strengths for he would need it to continue with what they started. To be able to stand on his own was a gift not all can withstand without breaking. Was he breaking now?

 _No time._

His parents began questioning Eurus' whereabouts and he told them straight she was in the custody of the Secret Service. And having been reminded of the problem at hand he was still in the dark how to solve, he put emphasis on his next words:

 _"Without a doubt, she will kill again if she has the opportunity. There's no possibility she will be able to leave."_

Not even after his current conundrum was solved… and even if it was solved it would not save her.

 _"When can we see her?"_

 _"There's no point."_ Mycroft's eyes glinted as he looked around and saw heated expressions looking down at him. Like it was his fault she was the way she was.

 _"How dare you say that?"_

 _"She won't talk."_ Mycroft squared his jaw—he had tried many times—he told her again and again if she didn't communicate back she will be in danger! _"She has passed beyond our view. There are no words that can reach her now."_

And everyone's attention turned to Sherlock who was said to be the _grown up_.

Mycroft concurred. A _grown-up_ by description was someone mature. Glad to know his younger brother has been acknowledged as one—it means he was liable to act. Sherlock has to take the attention now for all of their sakes. Time ticked and Eurus' ungodly threat will be upon them if Mycroft didn't do anything. But what was he to do? How was he supposed to solve it if it involved international affairs without it getting traced to Sherrinford?

Right up at that moment, he had been doing his best indeed, to stop the casualties Eurus invoked.

And here, Sherlock was in deep thoughts about how to help their sister. Different paths, same concern.

 _That's right, Sherlock. That's your job._ Mycroft settled back on his chair, feeling much confident to rely on Sherlock's power as he saw the younger Holmes step up to be the brother that he is. Mycroft could not possibly take care of Eurus while handling the matter of the state war that would soon befall them. _It would only be a matter of time._ His eyes fell on the folder on the table with its title crossed out with a black pen. He looked up to find Sherlock with eyes on him, pale as ghost, and had to press his lips closed, before sighing.

 _Do what you do best for the people close to home, brothermine and I shall do mine._

* * *

 ** _Present_**

The atmosphere changed drastically out of their favor and it was Sherlock who felt the tension at the sudden scrutiny and suspicion his older brother was receiving. Silence fell in the air that even the distant sound of bombs and guns were mere tinkle that couldn't break in the hush; fear and anger were high among the pirates that needed to be vented—they needed someone to received their wrath and it was a crucial moment when the _American_ spoke— and thus putting into the center the suspected man behind their fall. Glares and suspicion befell the sole translator.

 _"What does he mean?"_ barked the angered Garlack darkly, his eyes glinting red and menacing.

Sherlock had kept his eyes to his brother and saw—without surprise—no apparent change in Mycroft's expression. You could not have seen a reaction even when you told him the British Empire had collapsed much less be center of the rage a dozen or so Somalian Pirates. He stood there, solid as a rock, in his brown desert cloak Sherlock recognize to be common among the residence of Aden, and travelled his eyes to the pirates surrounding him.

And everybody hung for his next words because everyone could sense what was to happen next.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, his body arching, ready for any action in case things go awry with the situation, his heart thumping against his chest, his mind alert. He had been in many dire situations that had driven his senses to the edges and this very moment was one of them. In the middle of nowhere with war around the corner, surrounded with mercenaries—he had to think of their escape plan. Wasn't that why Mycroft called him there? _To save him?_

Sweat sliding down the side of his head, his eyes on the number of enemies and the distraction he had to provide— when Mycroft's voice floated in the air.

"What possible connection do I have with the American soldiers?" his eyebrows contorted into an act of confusion and Sherlock was reminded this was his brother who effectively played Lady Bracknell and one who could contain himself no matter what the situation. He easily turned to the three kingpins now with a slight shaking in his tone— an effect to garner sympathy, "I merely am a certified translator from Cambridge Academy of Translation— a small community outside London— what possible importance would I have to influence the Americans?"

"Americans!" shouted one of the Somali pirates in the crowd and spat on the ground. There were murmurs of indignation for Somalians were know to harbor anger against the Westerners.

"If anyone should be the reason, it should be you, Captain." Continued Mycroft and Sherlock saw his eyes glinted as he addressed the tall, dark haired foreigner beside Garlack.

The American took the challenge with a smirk Sherlock knew could only be made by villains. "Why is that?"

"Are you not an international criminal capable of bringing down half the hemisphere?" Mycroft offered as eyes fell on the foreigner, "Aren't the Americans much concerned about finding you than they are of the hostages? You bragged so yourself."

Heads turned from one side to the other, especially for those who could not understand the language. Only the kingpins seemed to weigh Mycroft's words and for the first time there was an abrupt change in their expressions. They now looked at the American with frowns and to their translator with considerations and Sherlock relaxed a bit with eyes to everyone but lingered longer on his brother.

"Well?" Garlack prompted to the American who shrugged with a smirk, his eyes falling on Mycroft.

"He's got a point. I am important."

"I lost 20 men because of you! And two leaders!"

"But you killed hundreds of Americans because of my AK47 weapons!" the American retorted coolly. "And are we really going to have this argument here? We're still under their radar—and face it—you know they'd be hunting you because of me so could we move on? We still got one hostage there so negotiations can run smoothly because they know you're angry." He pointed at the lone man who, unbeknown to them, jumped into the fire on his own.

All eyes fell on Sherlock this time but the younger Holmes was only waiting for Mycroft's eyes to meet his. When it did, he saw the faintest recognition from the older Holmes' eyes that instantly disappeared. His expression remained impassive but the slight narrowing of his eyes confirmed recognition. The undercover agent instantly looked away, not wanting for anyone to see their connection and his eyes then fell to kingpins surveying him with dissatisfaction.

"Australian?" asked Mohammad Abdu, one of the kingpins in the list of four who was still one of the living like Garlack who escaped from where Sherlock came from. Were the Special Operations Unit successful in killing the other two?

"German." Garlack snarled and then with all vigor, he crossed the distance between him and the only hostage. In the next second Sherlock found himself with a gun on his temple and everything around them fell into another hush. The lock of the gun was pulled and the detective was seconds away from dying— _he saw the intention from the leader's eyes._

 _Eyes of a murderer._

From the corner of his eyes, Sherlock saw his brother move instinctively forward and had to flash him a warning look. Mycroft had lost the remaining color on his face; his lips had parted and an unusual panic that was not common there was dancing on his eyes. Sherlock panicked too—at having seen such a change to what seconds ago was the embodiment of _calm._

 _"Stop."_ The older Holmes had said before anyone else could speak. Sherlock froze and found his eyes again transfixed to his older brother. _What are you doing!?_ He was screaming deep in him. Mycroft pressed his lips in answer to the detective's question and raised his eyes to Garlack whose eyes of daggers were back to him again.

"Why stop me?" growled the leader testily who has had enough of lost for a day, "I kill him and we tell the network he was kill by Americans bombing. Then they blame America. And nobody attacks us again."

Mycroft frowned at the logic and shook his head. "What you are going to do would simply be counterproductive. If the world found out a hostage was killed in the middle of a rescue operation then the blame would only be turned to you _._ All world government— Germany and other European countries nonetheless— will do everything they can to finally put a stop to this terror crisis. _They will send all their military power here and overcome this whole Southern region—you are giving them the chance to justify the attack— and nobody in the world will care because a hostage was killed already._ Human empathy lies on the basis that humans don't want the same bad circumstances to happen to them. _You are what they don't want to happen to them._ Kill this hostage now and you are sealing your nation's fate in the hands of the world."

Sherlock sensed Mycroft's declaration had much impact than the ongoing raid somewhere to their North. The older Holmes stood his ground and only the American had a complex expression on his ever-stoical face. The Somalis all believed everything the translator said. Even Garlack who had set his gun away with a glare at Mycroft and then at the orange sky where the American had launched their attack.

 _So parley does work?_

Then to Sherlock, he grunted.

"Tie him," Garlack said commanded before turning to the American, "We will talk. And you." He glared at Mycroft, "You ride with us." He then made a compelling command in his native language that sounded truly vindictive and threatening. The roars of agreement of the Somalians resounded in the chaos and like swarm of bees, their feet rumbled on the ground to their hives.

Amidst the cries, was the Holmes brothers wryly watching each other. Sherlock could see Mycroft now back in composure. He then wondered if the panic he saw in his brother's eyes was purely just an _act—_ he wouldn't put it pass past him because Mycroft was many things other people could never fathom.

 _The British Government was one of them._

Yet this was much more than the government…

Someone suddenly grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and dragged him to another vehicle. The undercover agent lost sight of his brother as he was thrown inside a pickup and sat between five or more pirates who all were silent all throughout the journey. Sherlock grimaced to himself as the next thing—a sack was pulled down his head.

The rest of the journey were all obscure to him but it didn't matter.

 _His mind palace was at work._

The ride was long and nonstop that it felt almost possible they were crossing the entire region. All those while, Sherlock's mind worked furiously as he understood the bigger picture upon seeing the Special Operation Unit come in directly above their shack's location—as if their intelligence where the hostages were kept was spot on—like someone was _in there_ feeding them information.

How many camps were attacked simultaneously?

 _Three._

And how many hostages do each camp have? More than thirty, two of which were British Citizens if Sherlock's memory from the Jolly Roger file served right. _He's right._

And who among them was capable of such meticulous plan? Who else?

* * *

It took another two days before Sherlock saw Mycroft again.

Their final camp was hidden beyond the thick bushes and undernourished trees far from civilization after moving for consecutive days in fear of having been found by the American soldiers again. In those two days, Sherlock remained to be the only hostage. Once or twice, Sherlock caught his guards speaking to one another in their native tongue of how other groups were on the run. He didn't have to decipher it from his little knowledge of Somali. He could see it in their behavior. _They were afraid._

So _afraid_ they were with what Mycroft said that they left the German alone. Even one of his toughest guards who had survived unlike the unfortunate Ishaar, and who had the tendency to beat his hostages never got around Sherlock's small room with its door always locked. The problem was Mycroft never showed himself either.

Which begs the question— _what else could he possibly be plotting?_

Though, naturally, Sherlock had already cracked Mycroft's case who couldn't help but feel respect at the calculations his brother obviously had a hand in this counterterrorism he had put himself in. Morris, Clarke and Johnston who all thought Marco Polo was working with the enemy—without their knowledge—was the main reason they were saved. And they will forever be none the wiser.

And of Johnston? Knowing Mycroft, Sherlock doubted Johnston was in any danger. It was Mycroft who had him extracted first—looking at Johnston's disposition, the old man may not have any health conditions, but he was old all the same. Mycroft would not risk _any death_ with _any other country's citizen_ when _his unit was in charge of the rescue._

All of this, Sherlock understood the moment he saw agents slid down in front of him from their rope ladders, acting as beacon of hope for hopeless captives. Sherlock saw them as _distraction._ _Mycroft was in for a diversion—it was apparent he was after something else_ of which Sherlock knew to be _severe._

Then there was that American who caught the attention of the undercover agent. The American's _insinuation_ that Marco Polo was in anyway involved was already enough for Sherlock to believe he was more than an average foreign accessory. It was obvious the man was _smart_ for how could he incriminate Mycroft without batting an eye?

And if he was as cunning as how Sherlock saw him to be, then he had to tread carefully. The man, in the detective's observation, was a former military captain—his clean cut, his stance, his nonchalant attitude, his extensive knowledge of weaponry, but much obvious was his aura. It was the same with John's.

 _But Mycroft regarded him to be a threat, which means he's one of the persons of interest in his brother's lists._

Still, the idea that Mycroft himself would put himself in danger when he had so many men ready to deploy at the click of his fingers was still a puzzle for the younger Holmes. There was a reason why Mycroft always restrict himself in the corners of Great Britain—that was because his fall would mean the downfall of the country. His life preservation was not his own— _it was for the greater good of the country he was serving._ That was the value Mycroft had put himself in.

The risks of him always getting found out was never in Britain's advantage so stay in the country he did. _So why?_

The door of his small shed suddenly opened. _Finally, a discussion._

Sherlock expectantly raised his head and saw his brother as a bag of answers. Mycroft's frame appeared on the doorway furtively and closed the door upon entering. He was wearing his brown hood atop his head that he allowed to fall behind him when the Holmes brothers' eyes finally met each other.

 _"You're just really bad when you 'care too much', don't you think?"_ Sherlock threw at him reprovingly as he stood up and dusted the side of his clothes with an annoyed look on his face. He watched his brother's face become solemn as he paused, and then one of his eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"Why do you think I told you it's not an advantage?"

"You should have satisfied yourself with solving the parking ticket issue instead."

"Parking tickets can wait. Let the media slaughter the topic till I return."

"So, you plan to return?" Sherlock smirked, then his smile turned into a grimace as he saw no reaction from his older brother. "What are we doing here, Mycroft?"

The older Holmes just stared at him, and Sherlock always _knew that silence_ which was more than anyone can ever imagine. He gritted his teeth.

Mycroft suddenly narrowed his eyes at him. "Have you been hurt?"

"What?"

Mycroft made a face. "Or did you have a concussion? I thought you would have figured that out by now with the capacity of your brain, a sleuth such as you?"

Sherlock stiffened. "Do you think it's safe to say those things just now?"

"You called me by my name, might as well reveal everything." The older Holmes shrugged while Sherlock frowned.

"Do you enjoy making a fool out of me?" he watched his older brother turn towards the nearest chair and sat there casually. The shed was windowless, yet the undercover agent could not believe he would be so nonchalant now.

"On the contrary, I've never been happier to see you, brothermine." Mycroft saw Sherlock stagger at the revelation of their relationship which somewhat amused him. "Stop jumping around too much, Sherlock, the coast is quite clear. Our favorite colored men are huddled in the station of their boss, listening to the local radio announcement of the recent raid in Zinjibar. You know we're around Abayan region, don't you? Preparing port to go to Somalia."

"As much as I know you're the man behind all the raid," Sherlock decided to stand near the doorway, in case his brother was _incorrect_. _Impossible._ He turned back to the older brother with eyes suddenly twinkling. _"Marco Polo?"_

"Oh." Mycroft heaved a deep sigh, "I was supposed to be called _Mark_ Paul upon my captured-infiltration but I suppose we can't help losing context here. They labelled me such name after a long roundabout story of this traveler who speaks of all his journey and learned many languages. Which is inaccurate. I had to bear with it to stop all the nagging."

"Of course, you did." Sherlock crossed his arms, sharp eyes now falling on his brother who was seated opposite him. "You've been enjoying this too much, I saw you lead armies outside the camp."

"Then you also know they are guarding me to make sure I pass on their information in codes?" Mycroft's snarky smile of overbearing confidence somewhat lightened Sherlock's mood. _At least he wasn't claiming to be a pirate._

"Didn't look like it. Is that how you rounded up all the raids?"

"I have agents from side to side in the city where the information we needed is circulating. It was like taking a candy from a toddler."

"Didn't our mother tell you to find somebody your own brain size?"

The older Holmes eyes widened. "Where on earth and who?"

"Mycroft, if you have been as energetic as you are now, you could've ended terrorism a long time ago."

"Good god, no… but be careful what you wish for."

"So, are you ever going to the part where you tell me what's going on?"

"Tell you? Honestly, use your head, Sherlock." Mycroft ogled at him sardonically, "It's up there with your eyes for a reason."

"I only saw you nearly discovered with guns on your head." Sherlock grinded his teeth and when he saw his brother stare at him, he sighed and decided to say the three powerful letters as a summary. _"Fine. CIA."_ Mycroft made no affirmation but the glint in his eyes was enough for Sherlock to continue, "Your _Jolly Roger_ file has been reeking with all affiliation with the American Secret Service—you've been on freelance again?"

"It's more of a _compromise."_

"So, the simple fact: you sent a man here on a mission—about three months ago for surveillance. Said spy reported the connection of all terrorist's cell which concerned a global scale. _Terrorists_ linking arms to arms with pirates' cells which could result in a possible dominance of the southern sea and its neighboring waters. Plus, the fact that there are British citizens held as hostages, you just had to act. All Chief Commanders must be reeling in their seats for the next action to take. The CIA which had been following these pirates' movements had to collaborate with Britain because well, you're there. That wasn't so hard to elaborate." Mycroft did not say anything but kept his eyes at his younger brother. Sherlock held his gaze, and then shook his head. "But that was never enough to have _the Mycroft Holmes_ flying all the way here from London."

"No, it isn't." Mycroft agreed.

"You're here on an entirely different errand."

"It was easy to work with CIA knowing we have a common goal, but yes, I have my own reason to be here."

"Lady Smallwood did feel you've been keeping a little secret."

"Is that why she sent you?"

"Didn't you?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow testily.

"I estimated you'd be here in two months." He smiled.

"Quit bragging. So, spill. _What are you doing here?"_

Long silence fell suddenly, and Sherlock realized how hesitant his older brother was to share the information. This made him consider for a moment, and then frown at the older Holmes.

"Don't tell me this is something personal?"

Mycroft's eyes lowered a little, when he raised his eyes, he looked quite sincere. "How's Eurus?"

Sherlock looked startled. "Mycroft?"

The young detective had stepped closer to his brother when he realized it had something to do with their family again. What connection can Eurus possibly have this terrorist cell this far from their country? The answer scared him and now he had to look at his brother as he repeated warningly— _for the older brother to have to come here on his own just to solve it was a dire warning—_ _"Mycroft?"_

"So is that your real name?" came a voice from the doorway and Sherlock whirled around to find the American he had seen in the circle of the Somalis standing at the threshold with left arm raised and blocking the doorway with a full smirk on his face. "Myco?"

Sherlock had stepped backwards in surprise, unaware of the presence of the man which he blamed on the man's military skills. He moved back till he was about an inch away from his brother sitting behind him, while warily watching the American whose full attention was on them.

"Who's he?" he whispered to Mycroft with his fist closing.

"Eurus' gift." Mycroft said quietly more to himself. _"Davy Jones."_

* * *

 ** _-To be Continued-_**

* * *

 _A/N: Ah well. Pirates ;)_

 _Parley's a discussion between opposing sides,_

 _or simply just Jack Sparrows where they stop suddenly killing each other xD_

 ** _Thank you for reading!_**


	5. Davy Jones

***Eyepatch in the Suit***

 ** _by: Whitegloves_**

 _a/n: We barely reached the peak of the story and its FIVE already!_

 _I hope you're still having fun^^_

 ** _Enjoy the story! :)_**

* * *

 _5\. Davy Jones_

* * *

 ** _In the cabinet office, 2 hours ago…_**

Lady Smallwood was running her classy painted finger nails on her lips as she stared at the monitor of her desktop. She was inside her cozy office inside the Cabinet office, behind her wooden desk atop a pile of documents and wearing a prim lavender top underneath her dark blazer with a single diamond necklace and crystal brooch on her heart. Her fireside was raging and bright while London's typical temperature was at bay outside the building with its night frost. Her secretary had left her tea in its saucer which was forgotten beside her arm as she remained occupied with a number of complications since being left in charge. The Lady had been alone for some time as privacy was a necessity in her given task, reminding the secretary, who was an MI6 recruit, to not allow anyone to disturb her. Her eyes moved as she read the information flashed on her screen, about a certain _island_ left on her care while its manager was out of the country and possibly getting murdered as she blinked. Who was he kidding? To merge himself with a group of mercenaries was a death wish— didn't she specifically told him his coffin would be ready the day he returns?

But Mycroft Holmes, as usual, humored her darkly.

 _"No flowers."_

And no _body_ either for how could they hope to return him in this land in pieces after the pirates were done with him? Thinking of her colleague and the circumstances under which he made the decision, Lady Smallwood heaved a deep sigh and reached for the computer mouse, clicked one of the smaller browsers into a full screen that showed her of a footage in black and white of Mycroft inside the Governor's office which they found two weeks ago. The whole video file has been removed from the system and only this thumbnail was left on the storage. It was a small file, over pixilated but with the MI6 experts on technology, they were able to make the image from a footage clearer. Now she was staring at Mycroft's familiar back while he bent over the computer on the desk which showed the screen with indistinct writings in bold. Mycroft never mentioned any of this event in the debriefing after the Sherrinford incident, a fact that raised concern in Lady Smallwood's side for without understanding his motive, Mycroft may have just begun a solo operation he astutely laced with the hostage crisis in Middle East.

 _But why there? Why with the pirates?_

The answer, the Lady was sure, had something to do with the evident writings plastered on the screen Mycroft was gawking: _Davy Jones._

Pressing both fingers on her closed eyes, she massaged her cheeks till the tip of her fingers reached the side of her temple. Trying to keep up with Mycroft Holmes was a task she never wanted to partake, yet who among their colleagues would even think of outdoing the Churchill—or even the best version— of their time? Everyone was—to be precise— _afraid of him,_ not because of his position but his ability to stand in par and hand in hand with the devils of the world while resisting them altogether using nothing but his unparalleled intellect. In their time, Lady Smallwood had never witnessed a man destroy an empire with a click of his hand and built it back with a single command. Mycroft's power does not lie simply on his ability to control ordinary people or give orders, it was the that he has aligned himself with the most dangerous sort—thereby making him _the most dangerous man_.

Charles Magnussen and Jim Moriarty were just some of his tea party members who considered Mycroft a force to be reckoned with. Did all these get into Mycroft's head to consider himself able to jump into the fire of Middle East?

 _Or was he being another idiot over a clue his sister obviously left?_

Lady Smallwood stared at the image again and tried to remember any instance were Mycroft had acted suspicious and found none. She had dismissed his agitation because of the events in Sherrinford and his meeting with his parents, but nothing like this came to mind, though she was surprised at his sudden intent to fly to Somalia. And she thought he only wanted to _distract_ himself or finish the assignment their spy had died for to report.

In any case, she had tried to make amends for overlooking the matter by sending Mycroft's favorite pawn into the game. One of those labelled _dangerous_ in Britain but was still under leash of his sole older brother. Magnussen and Moriarty needed not be mentioned just to fear Mycroft Holmes. The very idea that he has _Sherlock Holmes_ at his disposal should be enough to stop any attempt to the monarchy and the nation.

 _The black and white knights of her Majesty,_ they would say. No other description would suffice; Lady Smallwood sent the boy there for one purpose—retrieve his older brother alive or the nation would crumble. Psychopath or not, uncontainable or derange, at least Lady Smallwood knows where Sherlock Holmes' true loyalty lies and it isn't just with Her Majesty at all.

Yet Sherlock Holmes also lost contact after two weeks which now left Lady Smallwood with the restless Doctor Watson on her heels. The recent report they got was of the American Special Forces saving almost three dozen hostages in the Eastern side of Aden. A clue that Mycroft was still in the work, but wouldn't he contact them? Has he met his younger brother? Or better yet—was the boy still alive?

Three knocks on the door immediately had the Lady pressing on to her previous document's screen to appear. Answering in a monotone to let the secretary come in, Lady Smallwood was surprised to see one of her leading agents enter the room donning the common dark uniform of their profession who had looked at her in the eye with the most grievous concern.

"What is it?" she asked with sudden dread, wondering if two bodies will be sent her way from Middle East.

"There's been a security breach in one of our top MI5 archives, my lady."

She pondered over this for a moment, before looking the agent in the eye again.

"Has it been dealt with?"

"Yes. We manage to secure the error after a minute, but we're afraid a crucial information was stolen."

"Did you locate the hacker?"

"Yes, my lady. It's from one of our offices—of whom we are still conducting a thorough research. We suspect it's one of the new recruits who just had a tour in the building."

"And what information was stolen?"

"The profile, my lady, of Mr. Mycroft Holmes."

Lady Smallwood's eyes widened and her lips parted in alarm.

* * *

"Jones? Did my ears deceive me? What are you gentlemen talking about?" came the American's engaging dark voice, his eyes twinkling with underhanded mischief, his tall, large frame blocking the only escape so Sherlock felt them trapped under his scrutiny. Behind him, his older brother made no other movement and the languid tone in which he controlled his voice convinced the detective things were still under his control.

"Obviously, we were talking about you, Mr. Jones." Mycroft said politely, his expression deadpan, while Sherlock's eyes glimmered as he recognized the name from inside his _mind palace._ "He was wondering why an American was working with pirates… I told him you must have some English ancestry for _Jones_ has Welsh origin."

Jones transfixed a look in Sherlock's direction, and then began sauntering his way till they were face to face. From that position, Sherlock travelled his eyes from the man's dark hair to the sole of his shoes, his mind going through all the detail and frowning. He then kept his eyes at the man too who was leering at him curiously.

"Really?" Jones's accent never showed any inclination for the English, "You're asking some dangerous questions there." Sherlock kept his ground but did not say anything. The man was reeking of alcohol and but seemed sober enough to be playing cool. His exterior was enough for Sherlock to confirm he was an ex-captain who never quite left the dealings with weaponry. His hands still looked fresh from combat, the bulges inside his black, leather jacket confirmed guns on both sides, even a grenade and jack knife. His combat shoes were fresh from brisk walk by the ocean before it got covered by sand. A typical soldier with eyes of steel, which said a lot about his blank military dog tag hanging by his neck. Mycroft must have been having a hard time with his man hanging around him all day. It seemed Jones and his brother had established a common animosity tied by professional gain. But Sherlock recognize, as so had his brother, that this man was dangerous.

It made him smile.

"Interesting." He said before he could stop himself. Soldiers of fortune have always fascinated Sherlock for they are always three-dimensional men who lives with their natural instinct to survive.

"I know. I am." Jones replied as his eyes narrowed look at the detective, then stated, "You're no ordinary captive."

Sherlock dare not blink, but he masked his face with absolute nervousness.

"I told him that myself. He's very _inquisitive._ " Mycroft's voice floated from behind Sherlock as if to remind him that he was there. Sherlock slightly looked behind him, before meeting Jones' eyes again and calming himself.

"I'm a reporter." Sherlock said with a slight touch of German tongue, "It is my job."

"It's very common to them, journalists." Mycroft said with the same disinterest in his voice, "They come flocking where a scoop is found, never mind the risk so long as their names get printed. Truly _mass media_ idiotic. Look where that got you?

Sherlock turned and glared at his brother. At that moment, Jones walked closer to his side, put his right elbow on Sherlock's left shoulder with his whole frame facing Mycroft, and then leaned at the detective like he was a pole.

"Can't blame a man when he's doing his job. They either get themselves killed or get others killed to get what they want." Jones' eyes sought Mycroft's, "That's what we both do here so leave the man alone." To Sherlock he whispered, "You better be careful with talking with this guy, he's already got one hostage killed for suspicion of being a spy. He came here to spy on you so just hope you didn't tell him anything that can give you away. I'll stay on his good side if I were you."

He felt the American chuckle after that, before he moved and patted Sherlock across the back twice and moving towards the older Holmes. Sherlock slowly turned towards their direction, his mind palace going back to the three Australians who told him of this murdered hostage because of his brother. He knew there was more to it, more so now at the way his brother had stiffened and his lips thinned. Then it dawned to Sherlock, for he knew his brother better than anyone—that despite his perfect façade, he could always tell— be it from the slight quiver of his lips or the concerned arc on his eyebrows—that he was involved deeply and that it was _true._ Sherlock's mind bounced with questions after questions but he kept his lips sealed as Jones stopped in front of his brother and said—

"You're done with him?"

"We were just getting started."

"Did you tell him who I was?"

"I don't even know you well, Mr. Jones, except your surname."

"I did tell you, but better not tell anyone else if you want to keep them alive. Unlike the last one. Get up anyway, we're going."

"You don't have to be so agitated." Mycroft rose from his chair slowly, "They will pay you your money and then you can go hiding in the middle of the Sahara for all they care."

"You've no idea where I have to go next after this region." Smiled Jones meaningfully.

"Of course. How could I bother?" Mycroft turned to the supposed German captive, "Stay put. Garlack will come get you soon for your video ransom. The Americans need to know we still got a German hostage."

"We?" Sherlock muttered with a glance at Jones, "So you really work with them too? An English man?"

"You sure you want to be racist?" Grinned the American as he shook his head, "You think Europeans don't have what it takes to be criminal master minds? Its all the money. You call yourself a reporter?"

"You don't have to get offended on my behalf." Mycroft pointed out. "It's a compliment for Americans."

"I know." Jones dropped a heavy hand on Mycroft's shoulder who visibly squared his jaw at being gripped so tight, then with an evil smile to Sherlock's direction, the American headed outside without another word, leaving the brothers staring at the doorway where he disappeared.

"He's very dangerous." Sherlock commented as he and Mycroft exchange looks again and the detective's eyes fell on his brother's brown desert cloth, "Combat wise, I've no match for him. What more of you."

"I never intended to engage him in any hand to hand combat, I haven't turned barbaric." Mycroft crossed the room towards the door and stayed there with an eye out, before turning to his brother. "He's about to turn the engine of the rover. Did you observe him properly? It will save me time to explain of what will come later."

"Andrew Jones." Sherlock went on without prelude, "An ex- Blackwater mercenary. I've never seen a photo, but his credentials of being a private soldier and a mercenary reminded me of Blackwater."

"Good." Mycroft's face darkened, "Blackwater as you know is a US Private military company that hires retired and active soldiers alike. The US has had history of contracting mercenaries and privateers of the sea invested in billions by world governments because they could not recruit enough Americans to sustain war in Middle East. Half the people fighting as US soldiers aren't even Americans, more contractors are killed than soldiers—"

"I know that, _Mr. Wikipedia,_ cut to the chase." Sherlock breathed angrily, knowing the famous mercenary was outside, waiting, "I know no world government can ever regulate mercenaries, there are no international law about them—you tried, but you never liked loose ends so there."

"Do you also know that Andrew Jones is part of the incident in Mansour, Baghdad in 2007?"

"Of course." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "20 civilians died in a bloodshed attack as Blackwater contractors opened fire in the middle of crowded square, claiming that gunmen started shooting them while guarding State Department employees."

Mycroft nodded. "US and Iraq had separate investigations that never nearly met in the middle but one thing was clear to Blackwater estate, they had to fire those that caused such a huge ruckus that began the extermination of some of the contractors in Afghanistan and Iraq where they get billions of dollars because more war means more mercenaries and vice versa."

"He was the captain, he was fired." Sherlock frowned. "So, after being let go, he found himself here, working with pirates, smuggling weapons and sponsoring kidnappings. I tried following his trail while I was on an international hunt. But what has he got to do with Eurus?"

"This is everything about Eurus. Though, why she did it, I can only lay blame to resentment towards me." Mycroft paused, eyes darkening every second, then said in a tone so much like a person narrating cold facts, "She knew about him, I believe from Jim Moriarty. She sent him a file she called _Davy Jones_. In your favorite pirate translation that would mean—"

 _"Death."_ Sherlock observed his brother, saw his impassive face nod. "What's in the file?"

"Something that can kill either half the world or our sister, Sherlock. That's why I had to come."

The consulting detective's eyes widened. "What?"

"Exactly that." Mycroft turned to his shoulder, before lowering his voice, "She hacked into our military base intelligence and copied important tracking codes which she then encrypted in a zip file. Then sent it over this man. I believe it is in the hands of Mr. Jones now. I must retrieve it else we're all going to die."

"But what is it? Which codes?"

"Aren't you listening?" Mycroft's temper flared, especially when the land rover outside honked for his attention, " _Davy Jones._ What else do you think does that pertain?"

In Sherlock's mind palace, the word _Davy Jones_ shook his integral memory of its origin as its meaning flash one after another— _from the drunken sailors imprisoned of one bar man named Jones, from the bible's history, to the evil spirit of the sea, which then lead him to bottom of the sea, because Davy Jones' locker is said to be the resting place of drowned mariners; but this was about a code so what code could be found under the sea that could prove lethal? What was resting under the sea that needed military codes?_

Sherlock's eyes, if possible, widened even more as he met Mycroft's eyes, his face full of understanding.

"You don't mean… _navy submarines?"_

Mycroft nodded, his face grim. "Yes. She did. And what do you think will happen to the world if these codes get around the wrong hands? Military codes— keycodes to activate ballistic missiles that once locked to a location, could never be stopped. Death toll, Sherlock. _And war. A great war against our country because it will be traced to us._ And who do you think will benefit from it? That's why we must stop it."

"What do you think I'm here for?" Sherlock said with outmost confidence to which Mycroft smiled at.

"I thought you were here to annoy me."

"That's part of the plan, but you have to tell me what I need to do to help you."

A long honk was given from the outside that made Mycroft look behind him calmly. Then he took one step closer to his younger brother, grabbed his collar and pulled him, so that their nose was almost touching and their eyes alive as he whispered—

"Garlack will call you soon. In ten minutes to be exact as his usual routine after an attack to his base and meeting with his associates takes about 30 minutes, its almost done. It would be time for him to put pressure on his only captive—which means you will be alone with him in his quarters. He will be using a mobile phone to call an American negotiator. Don't worry, the American works for me. The American will update you of the situation, _you tell him you're thirsty._ He knows it means the pirates are planning to aboard their ship and avoid conflict in Yemen. They will go to Somalia in exactly 16 hours. Tell the negotiator you will be needing 4 by 4 glasses of it. He will know. Now all you have to do is to follow Garlack's demand."

Sherlock's flickering eyes had caught his brother's dark ones.

"Is that it?"

Mycroft paused this time, unmindful of another blast of horn from outside the room. Sherlock saw him hesitate, but his eyes were unwavering at the same time. Getting the meaning of his brother, Sherlock grinned at him challengingly.

"Spit it out, Mycroft, don't you trust me?"

"It's not a matter of trust," Mycroft muttered with transfixed eyes at his younger brother, "but the last person I asked to do this died before my eyes, Sherlock…"

Sherlock straightened, his eye not leaving his older brother, his lips pursing as he remembered well the Australians and their remarks about Marco Polo's bloody hands.

"Was he an agent?" he asked quietly to which Mycroft nodded quietly.

"The man I was supposed to…" he sighed, and deep within his eyes was a sorrow Sherlock never expected to see. "In any case, this will prove dangerous even for you."

"What is it?"

"I want you to check if Garlack's email also received the Davy Jones file. I want you to erase it. They may be unable to open it due to the encryption, but I don't want him having a copy all the same. Can you do that?"

"You're asking me to take a candy from a toddler?" he retorted with another smile.

"Garlack is very particular with his mobile, Sherlock," the older Holmes warned, "he only ever takes it out when a negotiation is to happen that's why you have to return it immediately. Observe him. Observe why. I have not time. I plan to cause a diversion for you to be alone with the mobile."

"How?" Sherlock immediately asked.

Mycroft shrugged. "Same as I always do. Guns and bombs."

"That's _not your natural milieu."_ The consulting detective reminded him with a tinge of annoyance.

"It is now." The British Government Head chuckled and then had to look up as another horn blast alerted him. Releasing Sherlock from his grasp, he headed for the door. "I must go."

But Mycroft was held back strongly with a hand on his left upper arm. Looking back, he found Sherlock upon him, with severe features of concern as he realized the gravity of the matter etched well on his face.

"Is Eurus going to be safe?" he wanted to know for by and by he knew the only motivation of Mycroft was to keep their sister safe. She who had endangered their nation and who possibly had just started another world war with Britain at the core. Someone had to answer to that. Mycroft was right, _they needed to stop it no matter what the cost._

Sherlock was sure this man here was willing to do just that. Mycroft stared at him for a moment, before nodding slowly.

"That was the initial plan."

"Then with everything you are doing, do you plan to survive?"

"If I don't, don't expect the world to last also." was the confident response and then Mycroft was gone.

Sherlock watched him go, before the door of his room was shut close as his guards returned just in time. Seconds next, the land rover's engine roared to life and Sherlock knew his brother's plan was in action despite his absence. The consulting detective was silent for a moment, especially when he looked down the hand he used to hold his older brother's arm for a moment. He stood without moving, not even when he heard his guards talking loudly outside his door as if conveying the message that the last hostage was finally being called by their leader. At that moment, Sherlock didn't care.

That was because on his palm was a smudge of blood that came from Mycroft's arm.

 _Who was Mycroft kidding around? Did he think Sherlock wouldn't notice the damage under that thick desert cloak?_

Closing his fist, Sherlock gritted his teeth and look heatedly at the Somali pirates who came to take him to Garlack.

 _No, Mycroft wouldn't survive here another day._

* * *

Sherlock quietly went with his captors as they lead him to another separate quarters, far from the captive room, hidden behind thick woods. Few Somalians were around, but the number of their weapons had increased. The secret agent noticed most of them were armed with bombs as well, not to mention around ten boxes of firearms in plain sight just outside Garlack's door. Sherlock observed the weapons, but he couldn't miss the assembled bosses out there too, a dozen of them, all in black clothes and keffiyeh around their faces with long rifles on their arms. The detective tried to see as much as he can before getting shoved inside the warm circular room of Garlack where he found the kingpin seated cross-legged on the dusty floor with a bowl of fruit in their middle.

"Why no money, German?" barked the animal leader as he waved for Sherlock to sit in front of him.

Sherlock did as he was expected to do and shrugged, knowing they were talking about the ransom they put on his head. "They don't negotiate." Especially when the CIA and British Special Operation is involved.

Garlack looked unimpressed as his gigantic fists closed in front of him that Sherlock thought he would reach for the bowl and throw it to his face. "We call German country." He announced all of a sudden, and to the detective's hidden anticipation, he watched as the kingpin produced a dark mobile from his chest and dialed a number.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, wondering what riot his older brother would cause when the next minute, the mobile was pushed on his face. He saw a number was ringing and slowly reached for the mobile his older brother had told him to secure. Once it was on his hand did the racket outside happened.

Sherlock was the first to react, followed by Garlack who growled at the noise his men were making—they were all jeering and shouting just outside the house—and the kingpin, being who he is, stood up and headed for the doorway to shout at his wild people.

Within the first seconds, Sherlock had cancelled the call, drove his fingers to the application of the mobile—it was one of those first modeled smart phone so Sherlock knew how to get around it—till he reached Garlack's mail account and directed himself onto the inbox—

Sherlock browsed through it but found none. He searched for _Davy Jones_ in the search tab and found no result. With his heart thumping hard, he was just about to let go of the mobile when it vibrated to his touch and an email came that very second. Garlack was still shouting so Sherlock decided to see—

What he found shook him as an unopened profile entitled _Mr. Holmes_ met him in the face.

Quickly, he opened it and saw to his disbelief and horror, his older brother's MI6 profile with photos and affiliations. The detective's mind whirled to answer why his brother's profile was sent to one of the kingpins when he was there as an undercover agent and found the odds of betrayal and espionage the reason. _Someone at the top…!_

Grinding his teeth, he deleted the message and dropped the mobile on the floor.

Then without ado, Sherlock grabbed the bowl, emptied it and smashed it to the mobile that cracked till it was in pieces.

* * *

 ** _-To be Continued-_**

* * *

 _A/N: In a conundrum here... xD cause the end chapter is next already! :o_

 ** _Thank you for reading!_**


	6. Black Spot

***Eyepatch in the Suit***

 ** _by: Whitegloves_**

 _a/n: Cannot end that early! Now that I'm on fire :)_

 _Mycroft's point of view! Warning for violence!_

 ** _Enjoy the story! :)_**

* * *

 _6\. Black Spot_

* * *

 _Infiltration had never been so easy. For one, the enemies were nothing but gold fishes. It was a matter of taking a pearl in the middle of the ocean while netting all that surrounds it… yet Mycroft couldn't help hating the sea. It reminded him of such a song that cut too deep…_

 ** _'I that am lost, oh who will find me?_**

 ** _Deep, down below, the old beech tree.'_**

 _At the beginning Mycroft Holmes only meant to retrieve the data lost in the hands of the unknown. He had worked hard on it, even sent one of his top agents to secure it, meanwhile uncovering its receiver hiding in the land of Middle East. It was so simple and there had been results after three weeks. Then a name came out and Mycroft knew he had to go out._

 _Andrew Jones. Ex-Blackwater mercenary. Intelligent and cunning. His name precedes him. He knew his agent stood no chance when the very man himself was the receiver and so he discarded his three-piece suit and umbrella and replaced it with keffiyeh and turban. It was what Eurus meant for him to do._

 ** _'Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go.'_**

Mycroft had come off at the airport in Mogadishu, Somalia, wearing simple clothing covered in his striped red scarf around his neck, so dissimilar to his usual attire that made him stand out a little as a foreigner amidst the pale brown Somalis, under the heat of the sun and the dusty road of the region. As per planned, he had arranged everything from the security of himself through a man named Mohammed Saar Abi, a Somali elder who was living in Britain and who, from his MI5 file, had good relationships with the dominant Sa'ad clan in the area. It was common that reporters, documentary writers and peacekeepers alike communicate with dominant clans in the region for safety regulations—these are the clans that have ties with the government which meant a possibility of not being touched by _pirates_ while staying in the country. This was of course, a false belief with a record of 6 out of 10 people get trapped and land in the hands of pirates because they get _turned in_ by the same security personnel who also serves as the guide of the naïve victims.

The amount of conspiracy was all too clear to the British government head as he studied the Somalian administration, yet Mycroft never took chances in his arrangement of security for he knew whom exactly to contact to make sure he finds his way to one of the most influential kingpins—Garlack's camp without suspicion. It was the same method he had tasked his initial spy to accomplish before his infiltration. He would have followed any other instruction from his agent, to tell him exactly where he was but he had lost contact with him the moment he arrived in the country which was never a good sign. And so here he was, presenting himself as outlandish translator wanting nothing but to translate certain pages of Somali history archive that could be found in the National Library at the capital. He stayed in a hotel near the library and there he was untouched for three days.

The fourth day was no lesser than what the older Holmes had anticipated for he knew it was about time they came for him. The first sign that he was under surveillance happened as he was reading a local newspaper early morning at the café near the library. There were plenty of other customers around and he was reading quietly when a thin Somali man wearing a dark shirt and military pants approached his table. The moment Mycroft's eyes fell on him, he knew.

"Is this available? The place is crowded." there was some fluency in the Somali's tone. Judging from it, the older Holmes knew the instant that this man's occupation was to recruit and establish connection to their next victim. The British Government Head nodded quietly and turned his eyes on his paper to appear disinterested. He heard the movement of the chair being pulled and the man sitting down. "Are you Mark Paul?"

Mycroft raised his eyes and met the man's glinting ones. And then from the corner of his eyes he saw dozens of other customers encircling his table turn their head his way casually as if to have a better look of him and then turn away—but he all so their intent— _he was surrounded._

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Oh, I saw your name on the internet. You are famous."

"Not quite, why?"

Of course, it was all part of the plan. Long before then, Mycroft had faked an account of himself on one of the Cambridge files as a translator. Obviously, he knew they were going to check him out the moment he contacted Mohammed Saar Abi to see if he was worth the trouble of getting abducted. There was no use if they got someone unknown. They needed someone who would be making it to headlines to capture the attention of other country's government. That was why Mycroft added a little on his file as a translator to the Saudi Arabian King. He supposed that did the trick.

Days after that, he saw more of the same men hanging around him every time he stayed in the café, or the same faces around him inside or waiting for him outside the library—though one would claim most Somalis looked the same, it was never the case with Mycroft who have supraprosopgnosia—a super-face recognition skills who can remember 80% of the faces they had seen no matter the outer change it had undergone. Britain has been recruiting men with such ability and had created a task force as part of counterterrorism. The recruits were good, but being only at 80%, nobody could still hold a candle to Mycroft at 100%.

Such was his life for another week— waiting patiently for both his agent or the pirates to make a move— until finally while he was on his way to visit Hobyo for more materials as he had indicated the previous night to his security, he found his van surrounded by armed men with a canon even pointing at the windshield of the car and raining the sky with guns. His security men were beaten—even Mycroft was gruffly handled as he was dragged out of the car and thrown into another vehicle and was taken away. But the older Holmes' mind was in tact and his plans in motion as he was taken in the deepest corners of Somalia. He disappeared in his men's radar after three weeks just like his agent whom he wondered if still alive.

 _Being dead was better…_ Mycroft thought callously for the information contained by this agent was more than enough to start a fire in a missile. That was why too decided to retrieve the agent himself. _He so hated loose ends._

The pirates didn't let him stay much long in one place though, he was brought to different places and had to be transferred locations more than twice. It was because the Americans were becoming aggressive as there were plenty of American hostages, most of which were volunteers from U.N and dozens of reporters. Mycroft had only met some of the hostages but he was never very loquacious in their presence, except when he met a Greek man with poor command of English, and who was nearly beaten down because Somalis recent _Jewish_ folk _,_ if Mycroft had not translated what the poor fellow was trying to say to his captors.

"He's not Jewish," he said simply when the man was getting kicked on the floor, his eyes straying at the crumpled body without any sign of emotion, "He's from Athens, a Greek and a simple tradesman. He can offer you nothing except plastic particles."

The kicking stopped, and all attention was on the lone man seated far away from other captives who was looking very antagonistic at the moment. It was because this was his seventh camp, and still no sign of his agent nor Garlack.

"You also Greek?" asked a gangly limbed pirate with a rifle on his hand.

Mycroft stared at the ignorant pirates and decided it was time to make a scene. He spoke their language as easily as his native tongue having studied it for half a day previously and told them how he knew what they have been saying ever since he came around. The pirates all looked thunder struck for a moment, before they all left the tenth in confusion. Mycroft was left alone with eyes on the fallen victim who was coughing nonstop on the floor while the others around him, presumably U.N volunteers, offered helping hand. Mycroft stayed where he was, and sighed as he put his head quietly on his arm and never budged even when the man was thanking him.

 _Go away._ He repeated this in his mind.

 _The last thing he needed now was to connect with anyone. That would only complicate things and endanger lives._

The next time Mycroft opened his eyes, he was jogged from his light sleep with snakelike hands circling around his upper arm and he was dragged again into another vehicle. Groggy as he was, Mycroft knew at that moment that he was finally being led to _Garlack._

* * *

The drive was long and the sun was almost at their heads when the vehicle finally stopped. Mycroft saw another camp but this time most of the sentinels were wearing long black dresses and turbans with high caliber guns. He was unsurprised at the number of men carrying such equipment when most of it, he recognized, were not yet out of the market or banned by international laws. With hands tied behind him, he was manhandled to a shelter, a cemented four cornered room with two windows. Outside it were more pirates guarding their keep. It was at that moment that the British Government Head knew he was to meet one of the kingpins with connection to the person Eurus had sent the files to: _Mohammed Garlack._

The inside of the shelter was simple, there were only a couple of carpet on the floor, a bowl of fruit, and then boxes and boxes of weapons. Mycroft couldn't believe the amount of it, nor the price it must've costed but his attention was caught by a large man seated with legs crossed in the middle of the room. This man, Mycroft knew, had his reign of terror without doubt. His very features were screaming of murderous intent, his dark, glinting eyes that have seen much violence now looked back at him like he was a piece of object without any soul, his hands were scarred as was his whole body but the firmness on his darkened lips and hardened skin spoke volume of his maturity in the trade of piracy—and _human trafficking. Very violent, very obscene and very deadly human trafficking._

Then Mycroft realized… _he was loathed to be in the same room as this person. His skin crawled at the idea…_

"You speak our language?" the kingpin asked.

Mycroft nodded, keeping his eyes down and noticing the underneath of Garlack's nails had some trace of blood.

"Your name?"

"Mark Paul."

"Marco Polo?"

Mycroft decided to look up and observe the man's facial expression. There was none. Hearing impairment, Mycroft decided as the man must be exposed to much explosions. He nodded.

"You speak many languages?"

Mycroft nodded again.

"You speak hungry?"

Mycroft blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Hungryian."

The older Holmes' eyes widened a little. Then replied a very small, "Yes."

"Good." Garlack scratched his nose, before giving Mycroft another grim look. "You work for me, I will not hurt you. Understand?"

Mycroft couldn't help it—he was becoming impatient, so using the Somali's language he uttered, "I can speak your language, much more English. What could I not understand?"

He was a little surprised at his outburst, but the idea that he had to translate Hungarian soon was gnawing on him for after all, he only knew one person who could be _the Hungarian_ Garlack was talking about. The Kingpin looked at him blankly at first, Mycroft even thought he was going to be beaten down for answering back but his sharp eyes proved much equal to Garlack's dead ones. Like it was a battle of primary instinct of animal on territory that he was not willing to lose— _even when he was about to be beaten because of it._

A second next, and Garlack gave a bark-like laugh and called for his men. One guard came.

 _"Where is Jones?"_ the leader asked in his own tongue.

 _"Still with the captive."_

 _"Tell him we'll be there, we have who we need."_

At that, he gave Mycroft a meaningful look without a twinkle on his eyes. But Mycroft was in his own prison world, inside his mind that was racing with thoughts because he had finally heard the name he had been searching for. _Jones. He was here._ But above all that, the older Holmes also had another shocking conclusion that could be the only answer to his earlier query. It was because he finally realized that what he feared the moment his agent lost contact with him— the agent was of Hungarian descent serving the British Secret Service. They needed a translator for a Hungarian… what else could it possibly mean?

Closing his eyes, Mycroft exhaled as the next thing, he was told to get up and was led outside to one of the corners where another group of men were huddled and guarding. There were two cabins behind these men and from the left came out an American in his bulky frame and firm bearing who Mycroft instantly recognized as his target: _Andrew Jones._

"Who's this?" Jones asked as he stopped outside the door with dirty hands, his sleeveless shirt with smears of blood in it. He eyed the British Government Head with a frown while Mycroft only looked behind him to the place where he knew his agent was being tortured. He had no doubt about it now, he was here to confirm what his agent was trying to say. The fact that his agent spoke in a language unfamiliar to these men only meant he has not broken down. Mycroft gritted his teeth and glared coldly at the American who caught his eyes and grinned. "Hey, what's a porcelain-skin man doing here? Are you British? You next in my line?"

Before Mycroft could speak, Garlack who was standing behind him replied, "He speak Hungryian. Let him in."

"Really?" Jones gave Mycroft a narrowed look and with tongue on his cheek, he moved aside and opened the door. "You're half Hungarian?" he asked as Mycroft was pushed from the back to proceed.

"I translate and decipher codes. It's my business."

"Then you better do some good translations or I'll have to bury this man alive for being useless."

Mycroft bit his lips as the next thing, he saw a man crumpled on the floor with face down the floor, unmoving with bruise and blood all over him. His legs were bent, an obvious sign of dislocation and torture of another kind. The older Holmes glared at the American beside him who had decided to lit his smoke and looked at his piece of art.

"Go ahead, translate what he's saying."

"He's mumbling…" Mycroft stood still, as Garlack stood on another side of him looking bemused.

"He not speak? You cut his tongue?" he threw at Jones.

"Not yet. I was hoping he'd be speaking soon."

"What did you give him?" Mycroft asked with a frown as his eyes saw a number of black spots of injection on the man's right arm. This alerted him very much.

"You can tell?" Jones said sounding fascinated and a little suspicious.

"The injections are on the table." Mycroft said without meeting his eyes. That seemed to quell Jones' questioning eyes and continued—

"I gave him a high amount of khat extract. Those leaves have amphetamine-like compounds with cathine the highest concentration that gives the feeling of ecstasy. He's in bliss right now, I think, since its somewhere between the effects of caffeine and amphetamine. If he's a user then it'll hold him pretty well. He'll be talking in a matter of minutes now since it's been 24 hours since I last drugged him. Addiction is very handy. He'll be craving for more and before we know it, he'll be confessing of why he's playing around my stuff and who sent him."

Mycroft said nothing but kept his eyes on his agent whose sandy hair was all over his wounded and scarred face. Signs of inflicted pain was obvious, it made Mycroft clench his fist.

"Who is he?" he asked softly without any attachment.

"Haven't you realized? He's a spy among the hostages." Grinned Jones, turning to Mycroft with his blow of smoke going directly at the British Government's face. "I caught him contacting someone on my own phone, can you believe that?"

"It's possible he's only asking for help." The British government head offered.

"That's not what he told me a while ago after a few weeks of persuasions. He was browsing through some top-secret fan mails of mine."

Mycroft stopped dead, his eyes transfixed at his agent.

"But he speaks Hungarian, you say?"

"That was the effect of the drug. His brain must be in terrible frenzy to be reverting to his mother tongue. He's a mess, I probably gave him an overdose." Chortled Jones as he crossed his bulky arms, "And aren't you a little opinionated?"

"It shows intelligence." Mycroft looked sideways at Garlack and spoke in Somalian tongue, "You said you wanted me to translate…" Whatever it was his agent was about to say, Mycroft was ready to misdirect them no matter what. _No one should know about the Davy Jones file! Not his connection to Britain! Not their objective!_

Jones whistled. "And he speaks."

Mycroft never doubted Jones had understood him and waited for Garlack to respond. That was when the kingpin decided to walk over the unmoving body of the agent, and without mercy, kicked him on the right ribs so his whole body spun sideways, his back now on the floor and revealing his face—

Mycroft caught his lips and avoided gasping, his eyes widening.

The agent's face had been mutilated with lines of scars all over. And his left eye… his left eye had been gouged out—where there was supposed to be a blue eye was now a black spot. A tattered brown eyepatch was hanging on his ear. The wound was not yet quite dry so Mycroft was sure it had only been a week since it was done. The British Government Head held back gulping and clenched his jaws.

Then he realized it was a wrong thing to do for Jones was watching him.

"You sure have appetite for these kinds of things." He said meaningfully.

"I am not as sheltered as you think… Saudi Arabi officials let you watch beheadings of criminals…"

"Oi, he's saying something." Garlack called from where he stood beside the man. Jones walked over and bent his knees as he grabbed the man's hair to make him face Mycroft who stood his ground, till he was gestured to come closer. He did.

"Open your eye. Why do you think I left it there, huh?" Jones shook the head slightly drips of blood slid from the agent's lips. Mycroft stared at him as he slowly knelt on the ground and hoping he could end the man's pain with his own hands. He had to.

The agent's eye flickered open and his once blue eye were filled with red around it. Mycroft mustered his strength and firmly held his place, his eyes not leaving the man's till it found him. It rounded in recognition and the next thing, the limp hand next to him grabbed hold onto Mycroft's free wrist and pulled on him.

 _"Antacart! Antacart ad nekem khatot!"- 'Antarctica! Antarctica give me khat!'_

Mycroft was still for a moment as he was recognized, then only said, "He wants more Khat."

"You're not having any." Jones forced the man to look at him and his whole face changed. Mycroft saw the real Andrew Jones, a mercenary, and come to terms of how dangerous his current situation was. "Unless you tell me who sent you." The ex-Blackwater mercenary nodded at Mycroft to translate who instead, as he confirmed no one could understand—

 _"You know they would not give you khat. There's no more."_

The panic in the man's eye became evident and his limbs came to life as his body shook but he was held firmly by Jones.

 _'Antacart!'_ the man cried as his sandy hair was pulled.

"What he says?" growled Garlack at Mycroft who licked his lips.

"Antarctica."

"From Antarctica?"

"No." Jones suddenly said ominously and the British Government Head saw his eyes danced gleefully, "It's a code name of one very powerful individual. I've heard of him before. He's name's been thrown around by assassins and the like intervening in Middle East. Old friend Moriarty knew him well. Said he's as cold and calculating with powers extending beyond axis… that _Antarctica."_

Mycroft fixed his eyes at his agent.

"Where from?"

Jones chuckled. "Who knows… but the fact that he sent this man here… He's after us, old fellow." He looked at Garlack but there was no sign of alarm or distress on his face. In fact, it was quite the opposite. "Finally got his attention."

Mycroft cleared his throat, "He's saying something else."

"What?"

This time, Mycroft has already made up his mind. From the way things were moving, it was inevitable that the agent would break and finally reveal everything he knew. The power of khat was such that it affects the mind to great lengths, even psychosis and depression. A possibility that the man would say things he didn't intend to… of the secrets of Britain, Antarctica's real identity, his connection to Eurus and the codes hidden on the files. It was all at risk. The balance of the world was at risk especially with his dependency on the drug heightening…. He has been compromised.

The agent looked Mycroft in the eye, his grip on the older Holmes' wrist not loosening.

"Couldn't we let him rest for a while?" he asked, hesitating on the task.

"No." Garlack replied curtly.

 _"I'm sorry."_ Mycroft told the agent who blinked at him with tears swelling on his eyes, as if he understood.

 _"Give me khat, I'll give you anything! Antarctica—we must have khat! The code is khat!"_

"What's he saying?"

"He still insists on khat but…" Mycroft held his breath, his whole body numbing at the choice he was about to make, "He said about a code… something he spied on a phone." He turned his eyes to Jones who gazed back at him, then quietly added his gamble. "Recent transactions of weapons on Al-Shabaab."

Mycroft saw Jones paled for a second. It was known that the Sa'ad clan—the Somalis _abhor_ Al-Shabaab, another militant group, much more than their hatred for Americans that any reports of attack and raid on their region would make the Somalis cheer. Jones obviously knew that too and his file said plenty of how he provides weapons on both sides. Mohammed Garlack wouldn't be happy.

"What's that?" the kingpin asked as he didn't quite heard Mycroft who turned to him—but the next second—someone roared so loud, grabbed him by the neck and pushed him on the ground— someone brandishing a jack knife that came out of nowhere— _the agent's eyes were red in anger as he raised the knife and threatened it on Mycroft's neck._

 _"KHAT! HOLMES!"_

Mycroft's eyes widened but in the next beat a gun was fired—causing commotion outside and several feet came thundering inside. Somalian pirates surrounded their leader shouting frantically, but all fell silent as they all pointed at the dead body with its head shot while underneath it was another body of a person who was also bleeding.

Mycroft lay flat on the ground, his heart thumping against his chest quickly. He knew the agent was dead with the gun flying past inches away from his own. It was Jones who had fired the gun.

"People under the influence of khat sure get quick with their hands." The American said as he leaned down to get his jack knife, wiped it with his shirt and return it on the case behind his boots where the dead man had snatched it.

"You alright? You're bleeding."

The older Holmes pushed the body away from his own and slowly sat up. He felt extreme pain on his left shoulder and saw a long deep cut in there with his blood oozing out. He wanted to touch it but was too numb at what had occurred with a dead body before him. He knew his face had splatters of the agent's blood, knew his clothes too was a pool of red but he could barely flex a muscle.

 _It was his fault, that was certain. He meant for it to happen. He knew Andrew Jones was going to be threatened. It had to end that way or else…_

Mycroft closed his eyes tight and breathed as he closed his fists, only to realize they were soaked in blood. He wanted to run away from there, wanted to scream and tell anyone who would listen how sorry he was, but all of it was left and buried inside his mind palace the next second for he knew he didn't have the time to break. His plan was in motion and he too had to move on.

So, containing himself, Mycroft said nothing and simply put a hand on his wounded shoulder. He made to stand up, but then saw the eyepatch of the man had fallen on his chest. Quietly, he took the eyepatch and stuffed it inside his trouser pocket and stood up, his whole body covered in blood.

 _Like he didn't see that coming…_ but it saddened him a little that he did.

* * *

 _Present…_

Mycroft had his right hand pressed on his temple as the land rover raged through the ground back towards their camp. They had been gone for hours after practically combing the entire Balhaf region to secure it from any unwanted eyes and spies. Jones too had some dark business in the city while Mycroft tended to the information of the ship that would be use in the upcoming meeting with the other elders and the Sa'ad. That was what Garlack had tasked him to translate in a code so no one would understand except his people.

 _Everything was set, all that was left now was to make sure not a single message was found on Garlack's phone._

Sherlock can do that. He believes his younger brother could. Sherlock always delivers in the most crucial moment. Still, Mycroft had spent the entire drive back wondering if his brother was successful.

 _As long as Sherlock doesn't act like an idiot, he should be safe._

The land rover stopped abruptly and the older Holmes was reminded of his reality as he opened his tired eyes. It was already the middle of the night when they returned and there were already lamps about each shelter. Mycroft was just about to leave the vehicle when Jones called him back.

"That German is lying, isn't he?"

Mycroft quietly looked back at the driver and blinked tiredly.

"Everybody here lies, even you."

"Yeah, well I don't make it a habit to screw up and have these camps filled with Special Operations. It will lower my profit if I lose more of these folks. Even you. Why isn't your country sending anyone over to get you?"

"My country doesn't do negotiation with pirates no matter who unless you're member of the queen's family." The older Holmes sighed, "And in case you forgot, Garlack refused to have me return to my country."

"You made your position quite indispensable, haven't you?"

"Likewise, to you." He slid out of the land rover, not wanting to have any more dealings with the American.

"If you can't sniff anything of that man, let me at him." Jones called loudly while Mycroft walked away with a mild headache. He knew he didn't have to remind Sherlock this, but his younger brother ought to be careful. Jones may have shown that he was putting his guard down but in reality, he wasn't. The American was always in constant alert of Mycroft—that was why he preferred having the translator around him. It might have been his instinct, but Jones could probably sense how a threat Mycroft could be too, even when his profile was low. Aware of this, Mycroft was also in constant vigilance as well. It was a battle of enemies on the same side as they quietly try do outsmart the other.

But then again, as Mycroft walked towards Sherlock's shelter, _it was impossible for anyone because no one could ever outsmart him in this region. Not even at gunpoint._

Sighing to himself, the British Government Head was already thinking of Sherlock's report when he stopped on his tracks as he saw that Sherlock's room had no guards outside. No guard could only mean one thing—no one was to be guarded. He quickened his phase till he was at the door, his mind quickly trying to explain different reasons behind this, but the moment Mycroft entered the room he could tell it had been untouched for many hours.

Fear gripped him.

Before he knew it, his feet were already taking him to Garlack's quarters—the last destination he sent his brother to be. Dread filled his mind at the idea of his brother causing trouble over a trifle because that was how Sherlock works. He had hoped his brother would be a little discreet of his behavior—yet at the back of his mind he wished this was the case. If Sherlock was caught then it was a game over for them.

He hadn't even turned the corner towards the Kingpin's room when he saw one of the vacant houses that morning had guards outside, chewing on their khat and chortling among themselves. Mycroft made his way towards the group with eyes focused on the house.

"What's happening?" he asked in the Somali tongue.

"Marco Polo." Cheered the earnest Somalis who had gotten used to Mycroft bossing them around. "Punishing prisoner." They pointed inside with big smiles on their faces.

Mycroft paused a second, and then strode towards the house. No guard tried to stop him, they just watched him go and enter, he didn't care. Inside he saw a group of five Somalis, all with bloody hands and sweaty faces encircling one limp body in the middle of the room. The older Holmes hastened to get to him, getting the attention of the pirates who watched the translator pause in the middle of them all with eyes on the captive. Sherlock's shirt had been torn in many places and his bruises looked painful on his light skin. Reddening and purple they were, with blood all over his body.

Mycroft would have asked what happened. He would have wanted to piece things together and convince them to let the captive off for whatever reason he could come up with without compromising his position.

But all of those disappeared the moment he saw five black spots on Sherlock's neck. Five injection spots. Looking around, Mycroft saw the paraphernalia on the floor. It had only been used recently, that was why his younger brother was unmoving. It had sedated him for it was obvious he fought back.

"Is that khat?" he asked with his forehead creasing, though he already knew the answer.

The Somalis nodded and Mycroft had to shut his eyes close in distress.

 _No…!_

* * *

 ** _-To be Continued-_**

* * *

 _A/N: **Black Spot** translates as **'Death Threat'** in pirate language!_

This has been so much fun to write! Much angst to see next :o

 ** _Thank you for reading!_**


	7. Abandon Ship

***Eyepatch in the Suit***

 ** _by: Whitegloves_**

 _a/n: We're almost there. I feel for Mycroft in this chapter!_

 ** _Enjoy the story! :)_**

* * *

 _7\. Abandon Ship_

* * *

Mycroft stared at the broken pieces of what was once a mobile phone down the ground with his jaw set, his eyes levelled and his expression unreadable. Around him, the pirate kingpin, Garlack was seated on his throne with one knee up, his one arm resting on it while he chewed on _khat._ The amount of disagreement and anger was visible on his face. From where he stood, Mycroft could see his dirty knuckles smudged with blood.

From where he stood also, he could see the struggle that had happened between his brother and the pirate leader as if he was there when it happened. The broken bowl on the floor, the fruits it contained still lying around, the traces of disturbance on sand in areas of the room that no feet had business dawdling at—and then the traces of dried blood as blotted marks on the floor. Mycroft saw everything till his eyes fell on the broken pieces of the mobile again, his mind replicating that of his younger brother to have his questions answered.

 _Why destroy it?_

It contained important information. Answered his brother.

 _Why destroy it?_

The very information you are looking for are there.

 _Be reasonable. Why destroy it?_

…

Mycroft gritted his teeth as he diverted his eyes to Garlack, half his mind still waiting for Sherlock to respond. His brother was really one to make chaos out of a trifle, but he was never one to be reckless at critical time. The only time he would, and the only time Mycroft couldn't get a reasonable answer from him was when his brother allowed his emotion to cloud his judgement. His mental state would always be unpredictable whenever it happens which makes it difficult even for the older Holmes to foresee his next move. Therefore, Mycroft does believe the only explanation for such a behavior was because Sherlock got driven by his _emotional rage_ judging also by the damage on the phone _._ He couldn't help recalling his brother smashing an empty coffin back in Sherrinford with his bare hands only because his fragile heart was played at. _Sherlock was angry then and Sherlock was angry now. But why?_

Of course, if it was about his brother's heart, Mycroft had no device to understand it. It was something Mycroft could never calculate that's why he hated the randomicity of an active heart. But what could be so dangerous, so alarming that got Sherlock risking everything? Typically, if they were in London, Mycroft's first impression was because someone from 221B got involved. Sherlock is and will always will be protective of his turf whether it means throwing American CIA operatives off his window or cornering suspected assassins in Morocco. This time however, they were out of the country with the only information worth risking lives for was the Davy Jones file connecting to Eurus. Did Sherlock find something that could risk Eurus' life? It was plausible.

Yet he would never praise his brother for it.

Mycroft blinked slowly and sighed. With his brother drugged and tortured, it would only mean he had to make sure none of the enemies come any closer when he was in withdrawal from the drug. He knew his younger brother better than anyone when it comes to his drug abuse and well equipped to deal with them. All he had to do was to make sure none of them, especially the man who just came in, intercepts, else Mycroft was afraid it would turn more out of hand.

Jones whistled as he came in and saw the mobile phone on the ground.

"What's with all these people getting their hands itchy when they see mobiles?"

Mycroft felt the man's eyes turn to him but he kept his silence. Garlack grunted and spat his red khat leaves on the ground with beady eyes darker than ever.

"Kill him."

Mycroft's eyes widened and hastened to make amends. In quick Somali tongue, he reiterated, " _He's a hostage. Kill him and you're sealing death among your men."_

Garlack's eyes fell on Mycroft and the older Holmes looked back undaunted at those murderous orbs.

"You said it happened while you were calling the German negotiator. It is possible he didn't want any contact home." He continued coldly in English this time, "If he was in anyway a spy, why would he destroy an evidence that must've contained a list of people on your contact that could provide high intel to whoever his working for? If he is working for anyone, that is." Eyebrows raising, Mycroft was able to add a nonchalant expression as he went on, "Well, clearly this is the work of an amateur whose first impulse is to contradict his captor out of sheer stubbornness. You saw him," he turned to Jones with deadpan eyes, "you even said he isn't your regular captive. Surely, he isn't one to bend at the will of others?"

"I can make sure he will." Jones replied with a smile at Mycroft.

Mycroft never doubted that as he turned to Garlack again. "He's under the influence of drug… I can make him talk."

A heavy hand then clamped on Mycroft's right shoulder and squeezed it tight which made him grit his teeth again. Jones suddenly made a pull at him till they were standing next to each other. He always hated the sudden moves of the American.

"Why would you be doing that?" Jones asked, rather sarcastically next to him, "That's my expertise— we don't want your pretty hands to do the dirty work, yeah? You couldn't even hurt a fly."

Mycroft pulled his shoulder away from the American's grasp and gave him a narrowed look.

"There is some torture that require no physical contact."

Jones seemed surprised for a moment at the fearsome atmosphere surrounding the translator and had fallen silent while Garlack called his attention.

"They beat him good." The kingpin raised his fist and showed the scraped skin on his knuckle with an evil grin. "No need more damage but make him talk. Drug him again and if he a spy..." His eyes fell on Mycroft suddenly that was meant to chill the bone but the older Holmes had gotten used to his menace it only made him press his lips. "Pull his tongue if he don't talk."

 _Not if I can help it._ Mycroft answered as he watched the kingpin spat on the ground again, this time on his mobile.

"How long has he been drugged?" Jones seemed to have found his voice as he stood a little behind Mycroft.

"Three hours."

"That should good enough."

"We cannot make any broadcast for ransom if the hostage looks damaged on video." Mycroft interjected because make no mistake, he saw the mischievous twinkle appear on the American's eyes.

"So, did you lose any important files?" Jones went on to Garlack who gave him a grumpy look.

"Not your business."

"I was just asking." Grinned the American as he looked down the mobile again, "You aren't the only one whose phone got targeted, you know. And if you ask me this has something to do with Antarctica again. He wants to find something that's for sure. _On mobiles and emails."_

"Sure, and smashing mobiles will help a lot." Mycroft offered sardonically and eyes fell on him, "In any case, we were able to finalize the business in Balhaf. Duualey agreed with the proposition, the same with Mohammad Abdu. It shall happen the day after tomorrow."

At that, the kingpin's eyes glinted and a smile touched the corner of his lips.

"We go to sea in two days. _Deal with German now."_

Mycroft straightened a little and sighed inwardly. In two days' time the pirate meeting in the middle of the Gulf of Aden will transpire. It was something he had in mind ever since he received the report of his spy who died in front of his eyes. The pirates and terrorists from Middle-East will conspire, it said. And he had worked on that knowledge from the moment they went out of Somalia to Aden and communicated with his men. It was finally happening.

It was a do-or-die deal if ever he never managed to get his hands on the keycodes. It could be the time Jones was waiting for to sell the keycodes—for he had never mentioned it to Garlack it seemed.

 _But first…_

Mycroft turned to the door and thought Jones was behind him, only to hear Garlack call the American back. The older Holmes would have wanted to listen but his feet had led him out, and though ordinarily, he hated brisk walking, he was almost running towards where Sherlock was held captive and found his brother's tormentors outside, sitting huddled together under the moonlight with their bloody hands and chewing _khat._ Mycroft paid them no more heed and none of them stopped him from entering the shack.

The room was semi-dark with only a candle lit by the table when Mycroft came in; he saw his brother's outline sprawled on the floor sideways on the corner as lifeless as an object. Without missing a beat, Mycroft strode towards him and knelt on the ground. Grabbing his brother by the shoulder he turned him so that he was facing him. Sherlock's body was warm and thick on his touch: blood and sweat had mixed together all over his throbbing body and Mycroft did not doubt he was in pain. But there were other threats to come, so grabbing his brother by the neck and cheek, he tried to rouse him.

"Sherlock," he commanded in a firm tone, " _Sherlock, can you hear me?"_

There was no response so Mycroft tried again with time ticking in his ears. "Sherlock!" he shook the younger Holmes' shoulder vigorously, "Sherlock, come to your senses, you're in danger, you idiot!"

As if the last words were magic words, the consulting detective's eyes fluttered open behind his dark messy hair that eased the heaviness Mycroft was feeling that very second, but his jaw was still set. He watched as his brother's eyes rolled uncontrollably on its sockets so he made the man face him, their nose almost touching and held on to his cheek steadily.

"Sherlock," he hissed with some urgency, willing his eyes to see and to focus which his brother was obstinately not doing, "Listen to my voice, it's me. If you don't get a grip you'll die—Sherlock!"

It took another second for Sherlock's pupils to find the face in front of him. Visible red was now around his eyes and so glad was Mycroft his brother showed no sign of blindness as it settled on him.

"Can you hear me?" he hissed again.

The mouth opened and mumbled something incoherent. Mycroft frowned and would have slapped the man into recognition when he heard him finally breathe out his words.

"G…give me…" it whispered.

Mycroft blinked, "Sherlock, listen—I know you can still understand me. Your tolerance to drugs isn't as light as you claim it—you were always the drama queen, now stop it."

"Give…"

Mycroft blinked several times again, and then looked behind him towards the doorway where he could hear people talking. Was Jones outside already? His mind racing, Mycroft turned to his younger brother again and tapped on his cheek several times.

"Dammit, Sherlock, listen!"

"Give me… more…"

Mycroft's eyes widened.

"Sherlock—"

 _"I need more! Give me some! Khat!"_

That very one word rattled Mycroft and for brief seconds he didn't know what to do next. The hold of the drug on his younger brother was unexpected— he thought Sherlock would still be on his senses knowing his dosage would render him most active—but then he remembered Sherlock would always use on controlled dosage. Just how many did they give him? Looking around with a little bit of panic in his eyes but his lips firm, he clutched his brother's wrist and found his pulse most erratic and had to clench his teeth.

"Sherlock!" he turned to his brother quickly, both hands now encircling his younger brother's face. "Wake up! This isn't the time to be fooling around!"

At that moment, he heard Jones' voice outside talking to the guards. Mycroft blinked again and then slowly shut his eyes close. He could not fathom the effects of the drugs to a user like his brother. But if his worst fear had come true, Sherlock may not even be listening to him as he lusted after the chemical. Yet…

He leaned on his brother's ear as he decided the next course to take if his brother ever betrayed him.

 _"Sherlock…"_ he breathed heavily, "come to your senses…" he paused as the footsteps outside began to get closer and his mind vowed to make sure they would not get anything from him. Then to his brother he whispered one last time.

 _"Sherlock, I need your help. Please."_

"Hey," Jones had come in the room the exact moment Mycroft was standing with eyes only on his brother's figure. "Is he awake now?"

"Not quite." Mycroft responded shortly and from the corner of his eyes he saw that Jones was carrying a bucket of water. But it wasn't just—his quick eyes saw the steam from it—

"Good." Jones said and without warning, he threw the contents to the unmoving form on the ground—hot and steaming it was—and Sherlock Holmes felt the sting on his skin which made him bolt into a corner with an angry roar. But he only got a glassful of hot splash on his shoulder—for there in front of him standing erect as a wall was Mycroft who had foresaw the action and had deliberately stood in between them—his whole body catching the boiling water that it smoked from it.

Even Jones was flabbergasted.

"What are you doing?" he asked in disbelief.

"I could ask you the same." Mycroft clenched his teeth at the pain across his right arm for his desert cloak protected the rest of him—it was thick added with the bundles of other garments under it for he was one uncomfortable to wear only two pieces. It was his arm that got the full score of the hot water and it now felt hot and raw. He usually never… he never allowed his reflex get the best of him. But just now with a helpless younger brother behind him, he couldn't possibly ignore it… Even his brain had decided that so.

 _It was painful…_

He held Jones' eyes with a glare he could muster as he continued, "We only need the ransom from this person—there's no necessity to harm him further. If you want to ask him—ask him while he's under the influence. Adding damage to him is rather inhuman at this point."

Jones' eyes glinted as he stood straight, eyes fixated at the translator.

Mycroft didn't budge an inch, his eyes squaring with the American. He lowered his arm beside him, the redness and soreness creeping deep on his skin and he was sure it would be much painful later if he doesn't soak it in cold water soon but he held his ground.

"Inhuman?" Jones chuckled, his hands on both his waist, "What?" When Mycroft didn't respond, the American shook his head, still smiling, "I get it, I get it—I get where you're coming from. Does this remind you of the Hungarian spy?"

Mycroft gave no visible expression. This seemed to taunt Jones but he shook his head instead.

"You're rather strange." He said as he walked toward Mycroft, his eyes becoming dark suddenly, "One second you never cared who dies in front of you, the next you're like a dog barking at his master's attacker. Get out of the way, your beloved German's awake."

Mycroft blinked, and then looked behind him. Sure enough, his younger brother had propelled himself on the room's wall with his head bowed and a hand on his shoulder that got caught by the boiling water. Had the water catch him full in the body, his younger brother would have lost his skin and be in extreme pain as half his body was already exposed. Mycroft clutched his raw and burning fist and told himself it was a good decision that he intervened.

Jones pushed pass Mycroft this time and recklessly took the man from the floor with his large hand covering Sherlock's throat. The American pushed him up and nearly lifted him, making Mycroft aware of how strong the ex-Blackwater mercenary was.

Sherlock choked, his unruly hair covering his sweaty face. Jones observed his features and seemed satisfied.

"This should be easy. His carnal desire's been awoken. Hey, you see this?" Jones took something from his pocket and Mycroft saw him raise a syringe. Eyes flickering, Mycroft saw Sherlock's dark eyes found and reflect the syringe. Hunger was visible on his younger brother's face and all the British Government Head could do was look down the ground and consider his options.

 _To die._

But that would not be without _pain._ He closed his eyes and then opened them as he looked at the floor. They would not get anything from him. And should Sherlock….

"Give me…" Sherlock's hoarse voice resonated from his thick throat and even managed to raise his shaking hand towards the object. Mycroft bit his lips with his forehead creasing. Sherlock wanted the drug more than ever.

"You want this?" Jones shook the syringe in Sherlock's face, and then pulled it away, his eyes severe. "Then tell me who you are? Are you a spy?"

Sherlock's pupils rolled back a second, but then his eyes focused on Jones and there was hatred there for not receiving his due need. "Give me…"

"I won't give anything to you until you give me what I want. It's a simple trade see? Hurry up before I pull your eyes out. Who are you?"

Sherlock chocked again and his eyes was just about to lose focus when it saw someone standing past the man holding him. Mycroft saw Sherlock's eyes locked with his own, before it rolled back again in his head.

"He can't answer you if you're choking him." Mycroft interjected, "Be reasonable."

Jones didn't make any move for a second, and then he let the captive fall under his grasp and Sherlock dropped on the floor choking his heart out. In a few strides, however, the American had brought his feet in front of Mycroft with a devilish glare on his face as he grasped the older Holmes by the collar and pulled him gruffly.

"I'd kill him if I want to if it is reasonable or not, I'll decide! So back off now before I do anything to you you'll regret."

Mycroft held his breath, knowing the threat was sound and confirming what a psychopath with penchant for harming others the American really was, but before he could respond, another voice spoke that made the two men stare at each other, before turning to the person on the floor. It was Sherlock.

"Reporter…" he wheezed as he looked at them with unfocused eyes, his mouth slavering, one of his hand raised as it clutched in the air and seemingly waiting for someone to give him something, "Khat… give me more… I'm…reporter… _please…"_

Jones left Mycroft alone and knelt in front of the captive.

"Reporter, are you?" he asked rather unconvinced, then showing the syringe again, he continued, "I know when you're lying. Are you a reporter or not?"

Sherlock's eyes were only focused on the syringe, "Give me more…"

"Why did you destroy the mobile phone?"

Sherlock seemed to muster his memory as he blinked several times, obviously in haze, but his response nearly let Mycroft sigh in relief. "No call… no money… useless…"

Jones stared at his captive with a disagreeable expression.

"You heard him." Mycroft had stepped forward now, aware that another step would make him one good distance from being choked as well. It seemed Jones had settled his mind on having a prey tonight for torture, and now that he wasn't having it, he was quite disappointed. _Obvious sign of a psychopath._ He had to get Sherlock out of his target lock now. "Under the influence of the drug, no man should be lying… the last one told you he was a spy even."

The American did not move and Mycroft became a little worried at how little self-control the man had over his animal instinct. _He wanted to kill, he wanted to harm people and that satisfies him._ Jones was a bigger threat to them than Garlack will ever be and this worried him.

But Jones did stand up after a few minutes' hesitation, and when he did, he stopped in front of Mycroft. The older Holmes held his ground as he saw the look on the man's face. The devil was in front of him. The American had a streak resembling to one as he walked over to Mycroft and gave him a heavy tap on the chest that had the older Holmes stepping backwards and coughing at the force.

And then he was gone from the room.

Mycroft remained immobile for a while with a sweat drop falling on the side of his head. The next thing he had gone to his younger brother who was still by the wall and when he got to him, his eyes widened at what he saw.

The syringe was sticking out of Sherlock's arms. Jones had stabbed it to him before he stood up.

With face contorting defeatedly, Mycroft reached for his brother's limp shoulder and let out a heavy sigh.

 _This would be another long night._

* * *

Mycroft would be lying if he said this was his first-time nursing Sherlock to life when he was so disabled after a dosage of his addiction. It started when his younger brother had reached the age of twenty. _A rebellious phase._ Those times when Mycroft couldn't spend all his time watching over the younger brother who was once so reliant to him after the grim childhood. It wasn't that Sherlock forgot how to care after forgetting Eurus and Redbeard, no. Mycroft had to cover little of his part in the story when he confessed to the 221B residence of their sister's existence and Sherlock's mental state. The truth was, his brother had always heavily relied on him, and relied on him even after he altered his memory.

And Mycroft never ceased to show Sherlock the right way and the proper way using the strength of his mind. If he could not help his brother emotionally, then at least, he will make his brother in par with his intellect. _Never let your judgment be impaired with your emotions,_ he would always say to the young one.

Gradually, his younger brother learned to cope with him. They were always together and the ship that was once shared with Redbeard and was left empty when he disappeared was once again filled with hope. Yet something bothered Mycroft for a loyal follower Sherlock was, he could never live in the shadows of his older brother. He believed Sherlock was meant for greater things and sheltering him from harm, growing even, was an older brother's mistake.

 _He would not underestimate Sherlock._

Which is why Mycroft had to do something otherwise his younger brother would not be able to stand on his own feet. He began drifting away. He began leaving him. _Abandoned their ship. For Sherlock's sake._

His failure, however, was to see Sherlock's response to his kindness. Sherlock began to resent him. It was not the battle of the minds nor the slate of scores against each other as Doctor Watson once suggested. It was more on personal level.

Of Sherlock begrudging the sudden independence that was given to him.

Sherlock thought he was _abandoned_ and thus began seeking way to get attention _._ Wreaking havoc in the city, trying his best to raise alarm while knowing his older brother was always watching from the distance. Mycroft knew that. But his mistake remained to this day was inability to see Sherlock's depression even though he knew from the past of his brother's trauma. Sherlock began using drugs.

It was a mistake Mycroft will always blame himself for. And he was there the first time Sherlock fell on the drug's clutches. And he was always there every time Sherlock needed someone to pull him up to the surface. Mycroft made it his life's mission to save Sherlock since then. Even made his younger brother, under verbal disagreement to make a list. Sherlock never agreed but eventually he did. Because Mycroft won't leave him alone, not even at the risk of his own life.

 _Because Sherlock, when high, was capable of anything harmful._

With this in mind, Mycroft remained in the room that night, in silent vigil while Sherlock lied on the floor, flexing in agony before him. It had been four hours since he was injected with the drugs and he was feeling the full power of it.

Mycroft had cleaned him up with a fresh water and cloth, his skin no longer had any stains of red though his raw and bluish wounds remained burning. His clothes had been changed too, but the way he was rolling on the floor under the influence of drugs, his clothes would soon be spoiled; while Mycroft's own burnt arm had been wrapped neatly with damp towel. Mycroft had been there beside Sherlock, seated quietly as he watched over his younger brother.

And no, it was not a new sight to him.

But it would always cause him sadness every time it happened, that all he could do was to clutch his hands and wait for the effects to subside, reprimand his brother once he was sober and get into argument. That was their cycle.

He now watched Sherlock clutch his clothes as he recoiled, heard him breath rapidly and murmur names he knew meant something deadly to those who don't know. Moriarty too was mentioned. But no more Redbeard. Above everything, this was the name Mycroft would always hear.

But no more Redbeard.

The list went on and Mycroft was unsurprised to hear his name more than twice. But he waited and watched patiently with a clean glass of water whenever his brother would choke on his own saliva or when his brother felt much dried. The rest of the night was full of his younger brother's groans and Mycroft never tire of looking after him.

The only times Mycroft stood up was when he had to replace the candle light and when heard commotion outside. Hours had passed again and it was the break of dawn. The older Holmes blinked his blurry eyes with the light from the candle giving him a little idea of his surroundings. Looking before him, he found Sherlock peacefully sleeping in front of him, his wounds as fresh as before, his arms about him with his chest heaving up and down and fast asleep. Then he moved the first time in the rest of the night towards the doorway and stole a look outside, he saw Jones and Garlack on the land rover and driving away from the camp.

Frowning, he pulled back into the room with his thoughts piling one after another. He was just about to come out of the room to inquire on the guards outside when he felt strong hands pulled him back—and the next thing he knew he was hovering onto the air with his body smashing heavily down the table with a loud crash. The pain was all over his body as the next instant he realized what had happened: _Sherlock._

In his pain, he saw Sherlock slowly walking toward him, his expression was of hunger and thirst—a madman in flesh seeking his pleasured chemical. The older Holmes blinked and was aware when Sherlock's hands wrapped around his neck to choke him.

"S-Sherlock!" he gasped for air as Sherlock's hands got tighter and tighter that blurred his sight.

"I need it…" whispered the younger Holmes in deep voice, his eyes flickering in the darkness that enveloped him after the candlelight was knocked out. He couldn't recognize! Then pulling his older brother up, Sherlock dragged the man in the middle of the room and threw him to the wall. Mycroft's back hit it with considerable force it nearly rendered him unconscious as he fell on the ground, choking.

Raising his wounded arm that had lost the wrapping of the towel, Mycroft halted his younger brother who was advancing on him. It was physically too painful to be a dream. Again, this was not _new to him._ Sherlock had assaulted him a number of times when his overdose got the best of him—and one time nearly had Mycroft fall from the fourth floor of a building had it not for Sherlock coming to his senses. That was the moment his younger brother had agreed to give him _the list._ The only moment Sherlock looked apologetic with everything that had happened between them.

He never wanted to have his brother regret anything here and so Mycroft stood his ground. Yet the pain that hit his whole body nearly had him kneeling. His shoulder that had never quite healed after for it was never taken care of by doctors.

"Sherlock!" he said strongly, straightening and heaving a sigh at the same time, "Please, stop!"

Sherlock ogled at him with his red eyes and Mycroft just knew the hold of the drug was strong. _Khat_ was not something unfamiliar to them in London and it's not even fatal, but its over-dosage could be threatening and to Sherlock who had been a user and who was never one to be stable when it comes to his mental state, he knew his brother needed to be restrained. _Before things got out of hand._

"Oi!" a Somalian pirate suddenly entered the room frantically at the darkness as they heard the tumult inside.

Mycroft shut his eyes. _My word!_

The Somalian shouted for someone to bring some light and when his companion did, they saw the brothers in a wrestling match, with Mycroft easily overpowered as he got pinned on the wall with his injured arm behind him—Sherlock was clutching on his sore skin and it was taking him everything he could not to scream.

The two Somalian guards shouted warning and Mycroft felt someone pulled Sherlock away from him. Then things quickly developed into something much more horrific as the Somali guards tried to subdue the drug-induced agent on the floor with a gun pointed on his head—

Sherlock being a nimble man ever since had managed to set himself free—and combatted for the gun easily as he struck the guard on the head and took his gun—Mycroft watched with open mouth as his younger brother pointed it at the other Somali guard who was trying to aide his companion with a gun also pointed at Sherlock—it was chaos!

"Stop!" Mycroft shouted in Somali language, both his hands now raised as he pointed both palm at each one to Sherlock and the guards. Then to the pirates, he ordered, "Get out! I will take care of this! Just don't shoot him! He is our hostage and you will anger Garlack if you harm him."

The Somalians both looked angrily at Sherlock who never blinked at them but kept a steady hold on the gun. But with Mycroft's goading, the two of them backed away from the door with the candlelight—to which the older Holmes quickly called out—

"Leave the candle…don't let anyone in. I'll handle him."

 _I always do._

The guard nodded and then frantically backed out of the room. Leaving Mycroft with Sherlock, who had never quite forgotten his presence. Mycroft was weary of the gun, but he was wearier of the Somalians who can shoot his brother, or that his brother shooting any Somalians. Either way, _he will be dead._

"Sherlock…" Mycroft whispered, tasting blood on his lips. "It's me…"

His voice did nothing but to have his brother point the gun at him in one swift movement.

 _And again, this was nothing new to him._

There was only so much thing one can experience with Sherlock Holmes. His younger brother once claimed that he wished his brother would act like any ' _proper big brother'_ , but no matter how hard Mycroft tried, it was something that would forever be out of his league.

Their lives weren't proper to begin with.

There would always be a gun between them.

Mycroft lowered his hands and straightened, eyes transfixed at his brother.

"Brothermine," he started softly, all guards down, "do sit down now. You're opening your wounds."

Sherlock's response was not quite what Mycroft should like.

Because he pulled the trigger with his itching finger and did it nonstop.

* * *

 ** _-To be Continued-_**

* * *

 _A/N: Mycroft's always watching youuuuuu!_

 _*cries in a corner*_

 ** _Thank you for reading!_**


	8. Walk the Plank

***Eyepatch in the Suit***

 ** _by: Whitegloves_**

 _a/n: If you are ready for some brotherly moments,_

 _go and get those woods, walk the planks and jump right in :)_

 ** _Enjoy the story! :)_**

* * *

 _8\. Walk the Plank_

* * *

 _ **In the past…**_

It was a _tragedy,_ his mum once said, and Mycroft having understood little of what was tragic could careless that Christmas Day as he entered his room one gloomy afternoon with a book on one hand. He was eighteen.

 _Someone had died again. Two actually._

He had just returned from his boarding school wearing a neat suit.

 _The old couple living across their house who always invite Sherlock for tea had died in an accident._

There were plenty of books he still wished to read about politics.

 _Sherlock was crying on the next room for some reason._

Another menial effort on his brother's part. Hadn't he told him many times that life and death was a cycle and that there was no point lingering on loss affection?

 _His parents had told him to join them in the wake that evening. He politely declined._

There were other meaningful things to do and customs and traditions that dictate otherwise was not one of them. Mycroft was not one to conform to the unreasonable polite social norm.

 _Thus, tragedy, his mum said._

A tragedy that their eldest son was so devoid of emotion and incapable of _caring_ for other people. Mycroft had just emerged from this rising argument in the living room he deemed _pointless_. His parents could never understand how relaxing and calming not feeling anything is, especially if it was part of one's nature. In that respect, he had to admire his secret sister.

 _Incapable of loving,_ his mother suddenly whispered to his father as Mycroft quietly walked up the stairs. _Tragedy._

Why with the _tragedy?_

Sherlock who would cry at seeing birds die in the garden, for Mycroft, that _is tragedy._

He put his book gently inside his drawer and did not bother turning on the lamp. Instead, he took three printed photos from inside the pocket of his bag, headed back to the door and went out to find himself outside his younger brother's door. He could hear the eleven year's old sniffling inside it.

 _Time for another deduction game._

His younger brother who at that very early stage of their lives had been pouring him all his love and affection since the loss of his memory, needed plenty of mental exercise. Mycroft wasn't sure if he could reciprocate the feelings but Sherlock was the very heart he could never have. The least he could do was to make sure his brother would do as his brain commanded rather than be fooled around with his emotion.

 _Lots and lots of tragedy will still happen in the future and simple accidental, pointless deaths should not be a reason to get stuck in the room and cry one's eyes out and numb the brain. It was inexcusable._

He knocked three times.

"Sherlock, open the door."

Silence followed his announcement. And then he heard shuffling feet from inside the room. It had been months since he saw his brother, to find him crying again, there's only so much heartache one boy could take.

 _So much more to teach him._

He really didn't mind it when Sherlock planted his face on his round bottom the moment the door opened, but he will scold his younger brother later about not startling people with his clumsy attack-like movements. Looking down at Sherlock's thin face covered in his unruly dark hair and his glistening eyes, Mycroft often wondered how it was much better _to feel_ than _think? Will his younger be crying at the death of everyone around him? What if their parents died? What if he was the one who died? Will Sherlock be alright?_

He didn't think his younger brother would survive such a blow. That in itself was inexcusable.

 _"Dear me. What are you crying for, you idiot?"_

* * *

 ** _Present…_**

Eyeing Sherlock with unblinking eyes while holding his breath and forcing his body to stay still from falling on his knees, Mycroft stared at his brother with his body numb.

But there was no pain except the exertion when he was previously assaulted for none of the bullets had reached him—for just as Sherlock pointed the gun at him his younger brother apparently had conflicted emotions with the gun swaying unsteadily after seeing who was at the end of the muzzle. The shots were fired on the wall and the floor—missing Mycroft's left foot by inches.

Now that Mycroft could see his brother's face clearly despite the dim light, he could see that Sherlock too was staring at him with sweaty face and unsteady eyes. He was frowning as if catching up with his brain which had previously warned him of what was about to happen if he didn't stop—the same brain now seemed to slow down for him until there was recognition in his younger brother's eyes.

"Mm…croft?" he mumbled slowly, then his eyes falling down the gun on his hands, Sherlock seemed to realized further with his face contorting with confusion. Then he dropped the gun on the ground with a thud, his hands shaking badly. It was then that Mycroft finally had the time to exhale and felt every pore in his skin open with his body cold and damp from his own sweat. _He survived._

Sherlock fell on the ground as if all energy had been exhausted but Mycroft ignored him. The older Holmes quietly treaded towards his direction, bent down to pick the gun and quietly headed outside to surrender the weapon to the pirates all armed and waiting outside in number. Mycroft assured them it was just the effect of drugs which had been forcibly given to the prisoner. He then told them there was no danger and asked someone to bring him a bucket of water. The Somali pirates, in Mycroft's opinion, were all pretty earnest folks who deems their job of kidnapping people was mere part of a professional career. Outside that, they were all just civilians fighting to survive.

 _Everyone was just fighting to survive and in this era of war the cunning ones often do while the ignorant doesn't._

He looked at them as they dispersed along and thought why he still does not feel a shred of sympathy for these folks. Then he shook his head for this was not a war between victims and suspects. This was about his family.

When he returned inside the room, he found Sherlock still lying on the ground and fast asleep. Stopping just near his brother's breathing body, Mycroft could not help seeing him as the boy who had often laid fast asleep on his bedroom carpet. Sherlock often did. In Mycroft's eyes, this was the only person who had genuinely showed him affection when they were young, the only boy capable of being him and at the same time be better than him. No matter how Sherlock may have said he had changed over the years, the both of them knew he would always be that boy who would always run to the door when he heard his brother knock outside.

 _Even if these days the proud consulting detective would run the other way._

Shame Sherlock had leaned the meaning of embarrassment.

But why must he be sentimental now, Mycroft wondered. Then the answer came fast in his active brain and knew the ending was about to come. His natural instinct was kicking in and he had to make sure of his sole objective:

 _Sherlock must not die here._

Amongst all the tragedies he thinks he can live with, _that one simple thought_ does cause him heartache.

 _Wasn't he in such a disadvantage?_

* * *

Sherlock first became aware of his surrounding because of the pain in his stomach. The pain in his head was agonizing too and as if a light was switch on, he felt his whole body in flames of pain. He groaned and felt his rapid breathing add to his aching middle. His eyelids were so heavy as he tried to pry them to open to find his visions blurred. He tried to blink as many times, and many times he had to shut his eyes down because of the pain in his head. He buried his cheeks on the cold ground and agonized over. Then he coughed.

It was a fit of cough that nearly threw his body around.

But he had to stop coughing almost as quickly as his numb brain suddenly started functioning and showed him a vision he doesn't remember. Of his brother standing in front of him while a gun hovered between them. What was happening? Where were they? Why was his idiotic older brother just standing around waiting to be killed? Why was he pointing it at him? Were they back in Sherrinford? What's happening?!

And then Sherlock remembered pulling the trigger so many times.

The memory froze Sherlock and almost automatically, his eyes frantically began searching for his older brother. It maddened him to realize he was alone and though something in his brain was knocking hard at him and telling him to see reason—there was no stopping his racing heart and his heightening emotion. Where was Mycroft?

With all the energy he could muster, he grinded his teeth as he knelt, raised his head and shook it to wave away the dizziness that almost struck him but that did not stop him from crawling towards the doorway clumsily.

 _What happened to Mycroft?_ His brain wasn't helping.

But before he could even start the journey, someone came in with dusty boots and stopped just in front of him.

"Finally looking for your brain?"

Sherlock slowly raised his head and found himself looking at Mycroft who was watching him with raised eyebrows.

"About time for you to come to your senses, I thought I had to leave you with a caretaker before I concluded our business here. You're about to return home." His brother walked around him and placed a metal pitcher loaded with water on the table. Sherlock pushed himself in a sitting position and had to put a hand on his eyes.

"What happened?" he mumbled as he wiped his face and had to stare at his older brother for a full minute before believing he was alive. Mycroft didn't turn to him immediately but stayed to fill a glass of water.

"You were dosed with drugs."

Sherlock felt the dryness of his throat and a bitter taste on his tongue. He knew it must've been the middle of afternoon for the light that came in with his brother was more than what the candle in the room could provide.

"How long?" he asked as he tried to pause for his brain to let him catch up. Everything wasn't exactly there yet.

"You've slept for an entire 16 hours. Unquietly."

"I know that." Sherlock injected suddenly with annoyance lacing his words, "I'm asking…" he looked up again and this time, found Mycroft turning around to face him. His brother was now wearing a different clothing, a loose faded blue long sleeved polo and faded trousers. Where his brother gets his clothing— Sherlock was sure it was from the baggage of captured foreigners before— one thing was for sure, Mycroft had lost quite a few pounds even for Sherlock's liking. He continued with eyes blinking several times, his throat catching, "I'm asking if I tried to kill you?"

"You mean 'again'?" Mycroft's sardonic smile only made Sherlock stare, "This isn't exactly the time to feel repentant now, is it? Though I am sure to remind you of it later. We're still in the middle of a battle zone and I need you to put your head together." There was a short pause. "Are you feeling any better?"

Sherlock raised his eyes to focus on his brother's face now that he could see him better. He knew by instinct his brother was lying to him again and knew what happened between them was more than what he was showing but that they were still in the middle of a professional job and thus needed to act accordingly—but he could not say anything on it.

He caused it.

Sherlock dropped his head on his hand and tried to retract more from his still swimming head.

"My head's a mess… spent the entire subconscious running around a graveyard calling Redbeard and John… me playing the violin in Sherrinford… but Eurus wasn't there…it's empty." he stopped as the memory came fresh on his mind once more and had to throw a glowering look at his patronizing brother who seemed resolute not to tell him anything, "And you standing in a corner with a bullet on your head."

His older brother gave no apparent reaction except to smile shortly.

"An appropriate ending for wild chase dream."

"Mycroft," Sherlock whispered as he pushed both his palms on his cold face, knowing his brother was not going to listen—but he was on the edge, having just finished a withdrawal so why was Mycroft so calm after he pulled the trigger—so many times! "You're not listening— I tried to kill you! What are you not getting from that?!" His voice rose at each word, till his eyes were glinting in anger. "You know it's dangerous to stay in one room with me when I'm high—why do you insist on getting on my nerves? _Why are you not angry with me?!"_

Mycroft was being Mycroft. He just stood there, cool as a rock, with hands on his sides and not an emotional etch on his ever placid, pale face. When he did speak, Sherlock was already breathing heavily and had his face buried on his palms again.

"Well, for starters, you should calm down. I did not come here to watch another one of your tantrums."

Mycroft was so cold and reasonable it just made Sherlock put both hands on his legs and look his brother square in the eyes. It was a special ability of Mycroft he rarely used—the kind of tone that would make Sherlock _listen when it was dire._ Once the older Holmes was sure that the younger was listening he nodded.

"Good. Now, first, you've just had an overdose so I'm giving you some slack when you tried to kill me, that wasn't really on your control. Second, I was trying to make sure you would not spill anything important to our enemies or reveal our true purpose, so I really couldn't leave even if I wanted to. The third one being, do you really think I can bear to face our mother if I tell her you died under some pretext of saving Britain? A fitting end, yes, but I don't think our mother is quite ready for it yet. You know I'm not either."

Sherlock looked him in the eye and knew Mycroft was still giving him facts.

"You're a terrible reasoner." He whispered as he looked away and shook the last remnants of dizziness away. His older brother took the glass of water and walked in his direction to hand it to him.

"So, you better not let it happen again. You know full well what it means if you fall here." A long silence, then, "My heart may not be in the right place but it's still there, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt stricken at the sudden throw, and with gritted teeth, took the water quietly.

"What happened to your right arm?" his quick eyes were seeing it now that Mycroft was standing so closely to him. He thought his brother was concealing the pain on his left shoulder which was obvious given by the way he carried himself, but now that he had time to observe him since he came, he found Mycroft using his left hand to give him the water when he was right handed, and that the sleeves on it had previously been pulled back to his elbow.

Conclusion: another thing to hide.

Mycroft straightened and hastened to casually hide his right arm but Sherlock was quick—and had snatched his brother's right wrist in a flick of his hand. The tug he did made Mycroft clench his teeth at the pain which was written all over his ashen face.

The two glared at each other.

"Let go." Mycroft commanded reservedly, "We cannot play _'care'_ for the whole night, brothermine, it's far off excruciating for me."

"Then better learn how to deal with embarrassment, you're the older one." Sherlock retorted with furrowed eyebrows and with a warning glare, he yanked the older Holmes down the floor to sit, and with friction in each other's eyes, Sherlock began to slowly fold the sleeve up. What he found there made him meet Mycroft in the eyes again but his older brother was not looking at him.

When he finally was able to fold it till his elbow and feasted his eyes on the scald of red and white already forming on its side, the absence of his brother's properly toned skin replaced by blisters and swellings made Sherlock stay quiet for a moment. Mycroft was not saying anything.

"It's a second-degree burn, damage on two layers of skin and you have not treated it properly." Sherlock commented as he looked around for anything that may be use for its treatment and found none.

"Where in this area do you think can we find proper equipment, really?"

"Those pirates, you're their boss, why can't you order them around like you do to me?" Sherlock pursed his lips as he looked down the injury again, then as if suddenly realizing his own pain, he raised a hand on his shoulder and felt a stinging on his skin. He met Mycroft in the eyes who was finally looking at him too. "And why do I have the burns— what happened?"

"Yours is superficial—"

"Why did we both have these—did anyone throw boiling water—?"

"None of it matters—Sherlock, we just nearly lost our lives and if you don't stop jabbering on the nonsense I will really leave you here to rot till its time to pick you up and declare I finished everything on my own, no thanks to you."

Sherlock blinked several times again and let his hand slid down on his side. The look of pure determination on his older brother's face was enough to convince him there were still other trials to worry about and a single burn on the arm was no reason to be overly concerned. _They were still alive and could still die._ That's what Mycroft clearly said.

What he was clearly not saying was whoever brought upon the scald injury on his arm, the cut on his lips, the marks of fingers surrounding his neck, even that of his already burn arm or even that… old injury on his left shoulder.

"Are you listening? Sherlock, I need you to focus—" Mycroft was still being noisy but Sherlock had slowly reached on Mycroft's left shoulder, took a handful of his left collar and opened it side wards—which obviously caught his brother by surprise as it exposed his bare shoulder—to that reddening and fresh stitches that was once cut by another addicted attacker.

Sherlock felt his energy get exhausted for some reason. "You've been walking around, half patched, and you're telling me to listen and focus?"

Mycroft slapped his brother's hands away and buttoned his shirt with levelled eyes.

"Manners, Sherlock. That's not something a gentleman would do."

"I'm a pirate, Mycroft. I can just drag you away here and send you home tied in ropes if I had to. I can do everything else you need. This is not a place where you're supposed to be."

"And where do you suggest is my place?"

"Behind your office desk with that big, condescending expression." His face turned with reproach. "What even are you doing here?"

Mycroft plastered a fake, challenging smile. "If you're quite done with your sentimental break down, I really want to know what caused Garlack to have you tortured here in the first place. If you must know, he and Jones have disappeared in the last seventeen hours and that's more than what I calculate as alarming. If you would only turn your brain back, tell me what happened when I only ordered you to see his files."

Hearing the name of Garlack suddenly had an effect on Sherlock who had to blink several times as something in his memory seemed to still be not in place. Whatever drug was given to him, it surely did mess with his memory, especially on the first few hours. What had happened?

"Was it there?" Mycroft prompted him seriously, "Davy Jones' file?"

It took a while for Sherlock to shake his head.

"No… It wasn't on any of his files or email…" he blinked painfully at trying to remember the exact events and only saw a glimpse of the fruits flying around.

"So why did you destroy it?"

"What?"

"You destroyed his phone, thus enabled him to torture you. I want to know what it is you saw that provoked such emotion? And how much does this affect our current position at hand?"

Sherlock had a hard time trying to understand what his brother was saying. The last thin he remembered purely was getting inside Garlack's quarters and being given the phone. Then as he was browsing through, an email came.

Sherlock's eyes found its focus on the ground.

So maybe it isn't also safe to send his big brother back to London after all.

"An email came… I had to dispose of it." He whispered huskily, his eyes glinting darkly at the memory.

"What email? Not the Davy Jones?"

"No." Sherlock heaved a deep sigh and looked Mycroft in the eye, "Something much more dangerous… and something I'd protect with my life."

Mycroft inclined his head on one side with eyebrows contorted, "Obviously. But what is it? And why was it sent to Garlack if it was connected to you? You know that's hardly a coincidence, such thing is never our context."

"That's what I'd like to find out. And you better be careful of the people you have around you. I don't think I need to say it, but dragons can eat other dragons."

"I'm no ordinary dragon." Mycroft said after suddenly realizing what his younger brother was saying, "In any case, if it was something so alarming, I have to take that into consideration of why Jones and Garlack left together. Something else is about to happen, Sherlock, and I need you to remain here for the rescue. My men have to rescue the last hostage, don't they?"

"What?"

Mycroft produced a paper from his trouser pocket and handed it to Sherlock's thin fingers. The consulting detective glanced at the content and automatically recognize it as coordinates. He looked up at his brother.

"What is it?"

"It's the place where we are all about to meet and which I consider as the final showdown. You are to give this to the Special Operation Unit headed this way. They know what to do with it, it's part of my instruction plus the precise time."

Sherlock looked at the coordinates again before shredding the paper into pieces and throwing it around. Both he and his older brother knew they only need to glance at it once to remember.

"And what happens to you?"

"I have to make sure that all members of the party will be present." Mycroft shrugged as he put his hands together and placed his chin there. "I am after all, the shadow host. To be precise it's an entrapment operation wherein all kingpins involved in all major parts of the ocean will be in, together with all the terrorist leaders from Middle East. And then if I'm so fortunate, even some unlucky black kings and dragons. I know you won't want to miss it, but you've done quite enough. This is a message that cannot be transferred via mails or calls, it's too dangerous. That's purely the reason why I needed your help in the first place. You have to go make sure this gets on their hands, you understand?"

"Why don't you come along if it's almost over?"

"I can fool Garlack and the rest of them," Mycroft said meaningfully, "But you know Andrew Jones will find it suspicious if I disappear. That's why I have to stick around."

"Staying with him is far more dangerous."

"And yet, having him out of sight frightens me more." Mycroft narrowed his eyes, "He's the one who received Eurus' message. I have to make sure it and him disappears. Without witnessing it with my own eyes, I can never rest in peace, brothermine, as I have explained in detail how it can be traced back to Britain, and then to Eurus. _Treason_ is a lighter accusation if that ever happens, and even I won't be able to do anything anymore. I don't want it to come to that."

Sherlock watched his older brother and saw all the dangers he has went through, and to be told he had to go away now and do as he was told at a critical point—made Sherlock want to disagree—because then if Mycroft found it frightening that the holder of Davy Jones was not around, then its sure hell scared Sherlock to leave his only brother alone now of all times.

"What if it does come to that?" he asked brazenly, his heavy eyes on his big brother, "What if we can't stop it?"

"We will." Mycroft was so self-assured, even Sherlock had to believe him. "All I want you to do is give this message to them and everything will be solved. Do not fail me on this—you have to be rescued no matter what. Without those coordinates, everything I did will be for nothing, brothermine."

"No," Sherlock glared. "I won't leave you."

Mycroft eyed him, then shook his head and sat straighter. "Then you leave me no choice. Since you're not working on reason then allow me to work on your guilt—you have been compromised with your addiction to the point that you attacked me—"

"That's hardly anything new—"

"You pointed gun in my direction and nearly had me killed—"

" _You just said it was out of my control—"_

"So, to trouble your overacting conscience, I don't need people who weighs me down on an assignment and could not even follow a simple instruction without getting beaten in the process. You nearly endangered the success of this operation with your carelessness and I won't have it anymore. If you have any self-respect left in you as a professional, you will deliver my message to my men at the risk of your life. Do you understand?"

The consulting detective could not think of anything to say—because for one, Mycroft was never one to point out scenarios of which Sherlock was at fault and rub it on his face without a reason. Just like when he stood in Sherrinford and lied through his teeth about why Sherlock had to shoot John, an underlying meaning was once again set so that Sherlock realizes the direness of the situation. He did. He looked back at Mycroft's arched eyebrows and tried to figure out why he was getting rid at. When no response came after a full minute, the older brother nodded again.

"Good. If you don't do this, I might as well die."

"Fine." Sherlock responded dejectedly.

Mycroft then stood up slowly as they heard people come outside. Sherlock heard them too and stopped whatever he was about to say when the next thing the brothers knew, three Somali pirates wearing dark garments and turbans carrying heavy weapons came in and stood side by side at the door. Sherlock slowly rose to his feet too and joined his brother and holding that bit of dizziness that hit him suddenly.

"Mr. Jones would like to speak to you." The man at the center of the three spoke in Somali language behind the black mantel covering his face.

Mycroft met his eyes and then slightly turned to his younger brother, gave him a short nod before stepping forward.

Only to be held back by Sherlock once again. The younger Holmes was careful on his brother's left arm this time.

"I don't like this." Sherlock said after a second, his eyes on the black turban men whom he only always saw beside Garlack. The memory of Garlack shook something in his mind again that was still veiled in the shadows. It made him grit his teeth. "I want to come, tell them I want to come…"

Mycroft frowned at him, before turning to the men and speaking in Somali, he conveyed his brother's message.

The reaction was instantaneous as the next thing, the two other pirates on either side of the speaker bolt forward and then one took Mycroft forcibly forward while the other hit Sherlock with the butt of his rifle in the stomach. He fell on the ground, coughing and crumpling on the floor.

"Him only!" said the pirate angrily while Mycroft watched in silence till he was pulled away from the room, leaving Sherlock coughing hard as he slowly tried to kneel— and coughing again.

His mind whirled at a memory he could not quite get his hands on—his brain won't let him catch on—but why was it so important to remember? What was it that happened before?

* * *

Mycroft did not allow himself to be pulled as he had told the men once he was in the light of the sunset. He walked on his own with them three following his foot. He didn't realize how late he had been speaking to his brother but it was alright since he was able to give him the most important instructions. He headed to Jones quarters without qualms that whatever happens after this, will all be part of his bigger plan.

Whatever Andrew Jones had to offer, there's nothing Mycroft won't do to make sure he gets on that boat headed to the coordinates he just gave his brother. This was him _walking the plank_ and jumping in and not _out_ of the ship because at this very moment, it was not the sharks at the water that are most treacherous but these _humans_ who will gather in one place.

This has been his plan from the very beginning.

When he came in the small room of the hut, he found Andrew Jones sitting comfortably on a folding chair with his feet leaning on a giant box of weaponry that had come as a sight with him. He was after all, a weapons' dealer.

"You're back." Mycroft said as he entered and remained standing in the middle of the room.

"Apparently, I had to get the goods I left behind." Jones threw his legs on the floor but remained seated with a wide smile at the translator. "You know that feeling, when you don't want anything to slip by? Something important that was hanging in front of you just have to grab on and take?"

"Of course." Mycroft replied dryly, seeing the excitement that could barely be contained in Jones' eyes. "I wonder if you were able to get your hands on it?"

"Oh, I will. My merchandise is everything." Jones straightened and then tapped the box of weapon three times before standing up walking in front of the translator who by then, was already watching his every move with precaution.

"Where's Garlack?"

"You need not worry about him, he's gone to Somalia to prepare for the pirate summit… I'm sure you're also waiting for that. Speaking of Garlack, he told me something very interesting last night. Something your little German told him while they were torturing him it seemed."

Mycroft stiffened. Jones saw it and smiled. "The German told him a name and it so coincides with the email I received a while back… a long while back when I was in Istanbul minding my own business. A name that came with an attachment. I can't open the attachment though but there was this message that told me this man could, and would you believe that, it contained the same name Garlack just told me. And would you believe that also—if I was not mistaken because I thought I was- I heard the German calling you that the first time I came to pay him a visit… eh? Remember _Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes?"_

Mycroft lowered his eyes but sure enough, he knew Jones had him exactly where he wanted him.

 _Walking the plank, straight to Davy Jones._

* * *

Back in his own quarters, Sherlock was already agonizing at the memory that just came to him as he was finally able to catch up with his brain—of Garlack beating him and injecting him of khat twice in an hour—and the effect of the drugs—and how he wanted more—and how he was given another three dosage after two hours—and how in his agony had called names over and over not of anyone else—asking for help over and over when he was high in drugs—the only man who had stayed beside him through all the worst—

 _Mycroft Holmes._

* * *

 ** _-To be Continued-_**

* * *

 _A/N: I'm sorry for loving these TBC's so much :D :D :D_

 _It means another chapter! Hurray!_

 _Almost there!_

 ** _Thank you for reading!_**


	9. Dead Men Tell No Tales Part 1

***Eyepatch in the Suit***

 ** _by: Whitegloves_**

 _a/n: Little flash back here and there t_ _o make us happy :)_

 _oh, and warning for violence and heart beats!_

 ** _Enjoy the story! :)_**

* * *

 ** _9\. Dead Men Tell No Tales 1_**

* * *

 _"Have you ever thought about something horrible happening to you? I don't mean your daily basis, but something really horrible happening to you?" Sherlock threw at his brother one evening as they dined together at the Grand Hotel after the British Government Head had summoned him regarding the Baskerville event that needed clearing and explanation. Sherlock acknowledging that he stepped out of line while using his brother's identity decided to humor his brother and asked him out, much to Mycroft's chagrin, defining the moment as 'no fine line between the punished and the punisher.' The horrible topic being Frankland getting blown to pieces in the Grimpen mine._

 _"Horrible?" Mycroft inquired while Sherlock nodded._

 _"Yes. What would you do?"_

 _Mycroft gave him a decisive look and sarcastic smile._

 _"I'll get rid of you."_

* * *

Sherlock knew something horrible has happened.

The moment the pirates with black dress and turbans came for him, dragged him by the arms and tied a rope around his body, he knew his worst fear had happened. The reason he messed up in the first place was because the pirates received Mycroft's profile—the irony of him being the one to reveal it to their enemies was eating him. And now that the pirates assembled and surrounded him inside his small hut, armed with the highest caliber guns and ominous eyes was enough to understand that things just went from worse to worst.

Sherlock braced himself as he knelt in the middle of the ring, feeling his very senses heightening and his mind at its most riveted form able to see the men for what they truly are. This was one of the perks of having been drug induced, his natural superpower enabling his faculties to concentrate more—his mind palace blinking away the unnecessary and highlighting what matters most— _a way to escape._

But to do so, he needs Mycroft to be around. Whatever his older brother said about staying and getting saved by his Secret Service now does not matter if these men knew Mycroft's real identity. Whatever was the consequence of that, Sherlock only had one goal as he counted the pirates and fixed his eyes at the door.

 _Will Mycroft appear? If he didn't, it means his position has been compromised and he's being held against his will. Which would mean this assault was for interrogation… which then would mean this was a dead end._

Sherlock understood that clearly. If he was to die here, he would make sure _never to tell them a thing._ But he needed to see his older brother. It was the only thing that was keeping him from running amok for after all, the drug was not totally out of his system and he was still prone to _snap_.

It was then that the man of the hour came in. Sherlock's eyes fell on him that instant and recognize the smug look on the American's face. But he came alone. With all the seven pirates in black turbans pointing guns in Sherlock's direction, the American stepped forwards confidently, unaware of the damage Sherlock can do even with his hands tied.

 _But he had to be patient… Mycroft was in danger._

Then Jones gave him a narrowed look and stepped closer.

"You're already sober? Shame, I thought I had to beat information out of you."

Sherlock instinctively looked behind Jones that did not escape the American's notice.

"If you're looking for your brother, he won't be coming." The American said, glancing side wards and shrugging while Sherlock stared at him in full in the face. _So, they really know?_ As if understanding the unasked question, Jones nodded. "Oh yes, he told me everything about you so no point keeping secrets, is there?"

"Where is he?"

Jones smiled widely and stopped in front of the agent. "Look at you with your British accent. What talented bunch are the English men. Do you all take acting lessons as prerequisite? All those drama schools seem not wasted. Your brother must very proud."

Sherlock glowered as the American knelt in front of him too till their eyes were levelled.

"It's alright, spit it out." Jones goaded, "Your older brother already gave details that I need confirming." The American's eyes danced. "All you have to tell me is why you're also here. Of course, I'd know immediately if you're both lying. So, come on, do tell before you lose the chance of saving your tongue from getting sliced."

Sherlock sat rigidly and did not waver. In his mind palace, Mycroft was already speaking, but this was not merely his brain conjuring his older brother's image.

 _It was an actual memory…_

 _"How's work?" he asked Mycroft one dull Saturday evening as he found himself inside the Diogenes after spending the whole day in St. Bart's waiting for any mysterious murdered body to turn up but without success. It was his second year living in 221B with John but with his flat mate out and about on his tedious dating schedule, Sherlock had found his feet moving towards the familiar street he once considered a haven for his creative mind._

 _What better way to get rid of his annoyance than to infuriate his easily cross, tranquil-obsessed, self-pampered and homeostatic older brother. John may have the wrong impression that it was Mycroft who usually nags Sherlock in 221B when in fact it was him who typically consults his brother for relative information. That was part of the charade Sherlock wants to continue building for how else would John find him intriguing if important people don't come to him personally? Mycroft, of course, was aware of this and had been rolling his eyes ever since. But well, it was all for John's benefit._

 _"Sherlock." Mycroft's tone was full of warning and exasperation he barely even glanced at his younger brother. "If you're trying to strike a conversation, stop. The only way you can get an answer from me is when I fall from the Queen's balcony during an important annual event with thousands of eyes watching from all corners of the globe and then I'll tell you how insufferable it is."_

 _Sherlock smiled on his corner and raised an eyebrow._

 _"You're going with the Queen on the balcony? What are you going to do there, shout 'off with their heads'?"_

 _"Drop it."_

 _"Come on, I'll even cheer you on if it's the last thing I do." Sherlock smirked. "Really, the last thing I'll do."_

 _"I said drop it!" Mycroft finally glared at him and Sherlock gave him a cheeky grin._

 _"Brother dear, you're a capable man even without standing behind the Queen. If you want to become famous then go have an affair with the royals—"_

 _"Yes, because the world has not enough sensationalism as it is. No thank you. Keep the newspaper front pages exclusively for yourself—"_

 _"I don't intend to—"_

 _"— really? Then ask your flat mate and that awful blog—"_

 _"—I shall take no responsibility over that. You have no idea how inaccurate he writes. My reputation—"_

 _"—which is so insignificant but you are still about to lose in a year's time if you don't stop John Watson—"_

 _"What are you so cross about? He's never even mentioned you there—"_

 _"I'd like to see him try." Mycroft's tone was crisp in that comfortable air that surrounded them. Sherlock grinded his teeth and glared at his smirking older brother whose face was lit by the light of the fire. "Sherlock, you have responsibilities as my brother, I hope you remember. We don't just mingle because it's dangerous."_

 _"Like getting abducted, you mean?"_

 _"As long as you understand "_

 _"You explained it with a diagram—the anti-abduction plan—how could I not? But a fault of yours, brother dear, what exactly would you do if we really do get abducted?"_

 _"No. It's only going to be you." Mycroft was positive even with another nasty look from his brother. "I would never slip that bad for you to even consider it. Besides, with your kind of criminal, I don't think my minor role in the government will serve a purpose for their cause if all they needed to know is your secret hideout or your favorite brand of tea."_

 _"You're really going to tell them?"_

 _"Oh, Sherlock. What you think is important is immaterial to me. The more important question here would be—what if you were to be used against me—that is highly probable. That is why I keep asking you never to mention my name to any of your little friends."_

 _"I'd be asking them to find another hobby if they ever inquire about you." The consulting detective continued with his eyes becoming alive at the idea, "Now, naturally, you'll be used against me, that's how I see it. My enemies are far more daring—"_

 _"—and barbaric—" Mycroft noted—_

 _"— I wouldn't be able to tell them what you do even with a bullet on my head—"_

 _"Not in any of your context, no—"_

 _"But to be used against you," Sherlock paused, eyes travelling back to his brother, then he smirked. "I don't think I need any persuasion. I'll give you to them with the right amount of money."_

 _"Yes, and then I'll have them arrested and you can still enjoy your sum. Win-win." Mycroft sat straighter with an expression mildly unconcerned for they both know the chances of him getting the slip was nearly impossible. But this expression soon turned grim, and before Sherlock knows it, the older Holmes had turned to him with a sudden grimace._

 _"But if in case something unique were to happen… and this were the case…"_

 _Sherlock shot his brother a levelled look. "What?"_

 _"In case… something would come up. And we find ourselves cornered…"_

 _The younger Holmes gave his brother a scrutinizing gaze, before a sudden smile crossed his lips and a twinkle lit his eyes._

 _"Ah… it's one of your to-die-for secrets, isn't it?" Sherlock was not sure, but did his brother turn pale? Mycroft looked pensive for a few moments, before pulling his thoughts back and gazing back fully in his younger brother's eyes._

 _And Sherlock remembered him say…_

 _"Don't fret when it happens. We can always conjure a story, but it would be risky so better not lie. Simply put, Sherlock, you stick to what your mind palace remembers to be true. Lacing lies out of nowhere will only prove unstable so stick to the facts. If we ever reveal our relationship to the enemies, it only means we're in a critical position. It can be our duress code. Act like we're the kind of brothers who have this surmounting care for the other. Humans typically fall for it, it's a textbook pattern. Well. It just means we're almost about to get killed."_

 _"Then why bother when we're about to die?"_

 _"Excellent point." Mycroft concurs._

* * *

Sherlock paused as his mind pulled him back to the present where the waiting American was searching his face. His body was still cold from the recent drug fiasco and he could feel the dampness of his back. This succeeding event was not doing any good—but more importantly— what has Mycroft told them and _what do they already know?_

 _They don't know about the profile._ The back of his mind spoke.

Clearly. _Otherwise a more urgent man would come facing him now with excitement at the very idea of one country falling in their hands… no, they weren't showing any sign of that kind of euphoria. Mycroft's profile was safe._

"I came here for my brother." Sherlock began with heart hammering on his chest.

Jones leaned down his large body and levelled his square face with that of the agent. "And what about your sister?"

Sherlock kept still, making sure his pupils don't betray him as well as his Adam's apple. _They know about Eurus… which means they know about the Davy Jones file. Eurus also left a message on her email apparently. What else did she tell them? Where was Mycroft?_

"I can't tell you that."

Andrew Jones chuckled as if he was expecting it.

Then before Sherlock saw it, he felt a painful jab below his chin that shook his every sense as his head was thrown backwards with excruciating pain able to disorient his brain. He doubled down the ground and shut his eyes as his surrounding started whirling, his eardrums making a buzzing sound. But the pain was bearable. With a groan, Sherlock blinked his watery eyes and felt the numbing of his jaw. Jones had given him an upper cut

"Your brother did say you were going to be stubborn." The American continued conversationally as her checked his knuckles while Sherlock flexed his jaw and spat blood on the ground, "But we already had a deal, I only want to make sure he's not playing me. I know how dangerous he can be."

Sherlock froze. _Deal?_

The next thing, his dark hair was pulled back, giving him the feeling that something was peeling on his scalp. Jones had grabbed a fistful of his hair till they were once again staring at each other with the American's face inches away from him and no sign of mercy.

 _But what deal?_

"Go on. Tell me what you know or I'll give your eyeball to your brother." Jones tried to touch his eye in the air, "He's been working very hard to keep you safe, it's a poor way to repay him. And he's already surrendered, what makes you think you can keep this up?" he pulled the younger Holmes' hair back but Sherlock kept his burning eyes on him.

Inside his head, Mycroft was leading: _Tell him what he knows already._

Sherlock grinded his teeth and pursed his lips adamantly. Jones closed in and asked:

" _Who's Mycroft Holmes?"_

Red lights of warning flared in Sherlock's eyes as his mind raged with obstinacy for he had never been asked so casually and never for the life of him had he ever though of betraying his older brother's true nature. It was something he considered sacred if anything else, the only kind of respect for Mycroft. Anyone who asks for such information was an automatic threat that has to be eliminated. It was a common response he was accustomed of growing up beside his big brother. It was natural that _nobody should find out._

And yet, Jones said Mycroft had told him… _what did Mycroft say?_

 _Lace from the truth, fool._

But Sherlock merely smiled mockingly at Jones. "You're wasting your time, I have nothing to tell you."

Another punch on the face and a kick on the stomach was all the younger Holmes received but he didn't care— _he had nothing to tell them!_ He would never betray Mycroft even when Mycroft had betrayed himself!

"You just don't know when to let up, don't you?" the American swore.

Sherlock felt his head swim at the sudden attacks, but he continued biting his lips when he felt Jones stepping on his mid center. Opening his eyes, he found the American gazing down at him with a dead pan expression.

"But I must say, you brothers are pretty good to have wormed your way here just to confront me. Too bad I already know how feral you are, and your brother does stand out a lot too so I kept my eyes on him. I knew he was always something." He stepped away and turned, making Sherlock bring himself up and shout behind the man—

"Where's Mycroft?"

The weapon's dealer looked back at him coolly, and then laughed aloud. "You want to know, do you? But did it ever occur to you I am the one asking questions here?"

Sherlock rigidly knelt on the floor with determined eyes and ignored the idiot as he persisted on, _"You_ said there was a deal. _What deal?"_

"What… mumbo is this?" Jones sighed as he shook his head. "You just don't understand your situation huh? Your sister in betraying all of you just wrapped everything as a gift for me—your brother included."

The consulting detective frowned. "What?"

"She's more than a genius, that's what I think. She included a note on the password protected file saying one _Mycroft Holmes_ would be coming to give it to me. And he did. Isn't she amazing?"

Sherlock nearly gasped. Eurus did what…?

But Jones had lost interest in him, he could tell. Why won't he when he thought he knew the truth already.

Still… Eurus knew Mycroft would be coming to clean her mess…. Because that's what Mycroft had been doing for them from the very beginning… _And does Mycroft know that he had been setup That this was not all about the country and the missiles… but about him falling victim to one of her schemes…? She knew he would come. But did she calculate that he, Sherlock, would be coming too?_

Sherlock's eyes glinted in deeper understanding.

 _Of course._

 _Why didn't he quickly realize?_

 _Eurus and Mycroft knew each other so much they could counter each other's moves. And yet when it came to him, the middle brother… a truce. Eurus knew Mycroft so much to bet with her life… that Mycroft would do anything in his power to protect both his siblings even at the cost of his life._ Typical Mycroft.

Sherlock's eyes flickered as he raised his head and watched the weapon's dealer. Did Mycroft really believe for one second, he could get away this easily?

"I cannot allow that."

Jones briefly turned back but he wasn't at all convinced. "Keep your head down man, I just decided I don't need you."

Sherlock squared his jaw and smiled too.

 _"Moriarty."_

One word. It took one word to wipe the smirk off Andrew Jones' face.

"What did you just say?

Sherlock clenched his jaw, knowing what a psychopath this man was and what it meant to mention _another psychopath—_ like a Neanderthal showing another Neanderthal in a mirror the could only end in catastrophe. He prepared himself for what was going to happen next. He wasn't disappointed when Jones ordered his men to pull him up and with the other black men in turbans, he was dragged outside into the clearing and dragged halfway into another quarter where Sherlock knew Mycroft would be.

He was dragged inside the hut just in time to see Mycroft stand up from a corner with eyes fully on the American walking towards him. Jones, without stopping, closed the gap between them in few strides and then wrapped his large fingers on Mycroft's neck and slammed him on the nearest wall with his whole back shaking at the force. Mycroft's breathless groan filled the room and Sherlock could only watch as he was held strongly on each arm by the Somalis.

"I thought you forgot to tell me something." Jones whispered on Mycroft's ear but enough for the consulting detective to hear. Mycroft coughed painfully and looking a little shaken at the assault, he pried his eyes open and found himself looking in confusion at Jones.

"W-what?"

"Your brother."

Mycroft looked around at once till his eyes fell on Sherlock who had eyes on him. With mouth hanging open at the development, he turned back at the American.

"What are you talking about?" Mycroft was forced to keep still as the deranged American turned so close their eyes were almost a blink a way.

"You never told me you were acquainted with Moriarty." His hands tightened around Mycroft's neck. "And if you are Mycroft Holmes then who do you think was that other Holmes involved with Moriarty, huh? You think I wouldn't know about the man who got rid of all his networks? The man who got him killed? You think I wouldn't know that?"

His hand nearly crushed the older Holmes' throat who was holding back breathe with eyes tightening close. With a gasp, Mycroft clawed his fingers on Jones' arms and was half expecting for his feet to leave the ground when—

"Leave him alone!" Sherlock forcefully tried to free himself from his guards, pulling away but not succeeding, his eyes burning holes at the back of Jones' head. Not succeeding to get attention, he went on, "I'm the one connected to Moriarty—so hands off my brother!"

"Oh, I know you are." Jones barely glanced at him as he loosened his grip on Mycroft's neck but did not budge an inch from where he was standing and continued ogling at the older Holmes. "I know of how he met his death, it was the talk in the underground and the name Sherlock Holmes— _I should have seen the connection!_ It was all over the networks. But it wasn't that that made news on the Dark Web. _Someone else was mentioned._ "

Mycroft could barely look away from Jones whose eyes were transfixed on him while Sherlock's lips parted.

"A man able to pull the strings behind while Sherlock Holmes remained the bait." Jones continued, "The man whom they said was working in the shadows of the British Government. Moriarty would make reference about him many times. He said this man had Sherlock Holmes wrapped on his palms. You think I wouldn't guess? Mycroft Holmes, my smart fellow who can make people _do exactly_ as he said…or perhaps… _the Antarctica?"_

"And you really think the most important man of the country will come here, begging on his knees?" Sherlock retorted with heart pounding at the revelations that weren't meant to happen. _If this continued, and Mycroft was found—_

"So, you really do know him?" Jones' first sign of interest to Sherlock returned as he glanced back at the detective but then—

 _"So, what if I am?"_

Sherlock froze in pure terror as he found his older brother speaking again. Even Jones was stunned at Mycroft's casualness. He stood there, an inch from Andrew Jones and breathing hard but his face remained resolute.

"Mycroft—" Sherlock began but his older brother cut him off with one look at the American.

And his tone was ever cold.

"So, what if I am?" he repeated tersely, "We already have a deal. Knowing this only adds a price on my head, but I don't think it's a reason for you to overreact."

"Overreact? You call this overreacting?" Jones opened his mouth, and then the next thing he was chortling and tapping each of Mycroft's shoulders, holding him like a prize and squeezing his arms. "You have no idea how much price you will be, Mr. Holmes. But what the hell, we do have an agreement. You've no idea how you just changed the orbit—"

 _"Mycroft!"_

Both Jones and Mycroft turned to the consulting detective who was angrily staring at them from where he stood.

 _"What the hell are you doing?"_

Mycroft didn't say anything but remained looking at his brother too. Before Sherlock found himself face to face with Andrew Jones who had finally turned his way with a big smirk on his face.

"Your brother has a minor position in the government, you say?" he grinned now at the maddened consulting detective who was only kept still by the guards holding his arms. "I don't think you understand the meaning of that. Who cares about the missiles if I can have my own navy?"

"You think my brother would betray his country?" Sherlock whispered testily, eyes bent on Jones.

"He already did." Jones shrugged with a smile, "Gave me the password. I already saw the codes."

Sherlock looked pass the American towards his brother who stood still, unmoved but with blank eyes staring at him too. The detective immediately turned to Jones with a step forward.

"Tell me about this deal." When Jones didn't speak, Sherlock nearly threw himself at the man but was held back by strong hands, "TELL ME!"

It was at that precise moment that yells from the outside suddenly broke the remaining tranquility outside. Sherlock and the rest looked around in attention, and then Jones was outside within seconds. Sherlock took the opportunity as the other of his henchmen followed the American and strode to where his brother was standing.

"Are you okay?" he asked first with eyes searching Mycroft's face, and then falling to his brother's reddened neck. It made the younger Holmes swallow hard.

But Mycroft was the epitome of calm. With eyes looking at the ceiling, he turned to Sherlock quietly. "That's them."

Sherlock stared, and then in understanding he blinked several times at his older brother.

"Your Special Operation?" he said in disbelief, then accused his brother— _"Are you calculating all of this?"_

"Listen, we don't have time." Mycroft gave him his sharpest glare. "We will proceed as planned. You have to give the message—they will understand. We'll have to do something radical now that Jones has the keycode."

"He already has the keycode—what else does he want from you?"

"Well, you can imagine what he'd want to do with the man who has access to all of Great Britain's sources, don't you?" Mycroft raised an annoyed eyebrow, "But it doesn't matter—"

 _"Doesn't matter? You threatened anyone who comes closer to me in fear of discovering your name and now they know who you are 'it doesn't matter'—!?"_

Sherlock stopped in midair as Mycroft's hand shot out of nowhere and grasped his arm tight to get his attention.

"Sherlock." Mycroft's face was very solemn, "It will all not matter if you succeed with your job. You understand? You _must_ get left behind and be rescued. It's critical. I trust no one else in this world, you know that, except you."

The younger Holmes looked startled. Then he smirked. "Is this textbook to you too?"

Mycroft shook his head, "You _must_ get the coordinates to them in time. _You must let me be taken away."_

At that, the younger Holmes halted for he knew that tone of Mycroft's. He always knew when he had to _really_ follow. Mycroft always knows how to make him after all.

"What'll happen to you?" he asked.

"I'll be just fine." Mycroft slowly let go of his arm and stood warily, especially as they heard running feet and shouting people outside. "I can't disappear beside Jones. I have to make sure he'll be there when this happens or risk having him escaped. He's notorious for being slippery, and he already has the codes and my identity. I can't let him get away."

From a far, Sherlock thought he heard a helicopter's sound. Something at the pit of his stomach churned as he looked at his older brother again. He knew something was wrong, but he also knew Mycroft was being reasonable. He had to choose his own set of action now. But one thing was for sure, his older brother looked truly worn out.

"Why is Eurus doing this?" he couldn't help but ask defeatedly. "To you?"

Mycroft, who was already expecting people to come thru the door, glanced back at him and paused at his question.

"Sibling rivalry?" he suggested in bemusement.

"Mycroft." Sherlock could just feel his brother slipping by.

"She hates me as how sibling would hate irresponsible big brothers." Mycroft finished with a short nod. "But she just didn't think a little _'well'_ could contain me."

Sherlock blinked, but the pirates came surging in with big steps towards his big brother. Jones was waiting at the doorway when Sherlock was shoved aside and Mycroft was taken by the arms. The American shook his head as he and Mycroft looked at each other.

"I knew you were behind all those raids."

"If we go now, they won't even catch us." Mycroft offered.

"And you're no longer to contact anyone starting now, _Marco Polo_." He nodded at his men who dragged the older Holmes out, leaving Sherlock watching his disappearing form, before his eyes found the American whom he despised so much at the moment.

"Why not take me too?" Sherlock growled, knowing full well Mycroft would get cross with him but he doesn't care. Something was not right with their parting and he was pretty eager to get reunited just to annoy Mycroft again.

"That's part of the deal, I don't get to take the younger one or the older will be less cooperative." Jones frowned, "I don't know what logic he used to make me agree, but you will stay here till we're done at sea. Your brother has decided to work for me without letting Garlack know our connection. I don't intend to share him with Garlack or anyone so I'm keeping my part of the bargain. You, on the other hand, looks like you'll be in the middle of a war for a while."

"Jones!" Sherlock gritted his teeth in frustration, "Leave me here and you won't have another peaceful day—!"

"Yeah, yeah, try to survive first, would you?" Jones called and he was gone. The next thing, Sherlock heard the American's land rover roar its engine and within seconds the sound of their vehicle roaring away. The other Somali pirates were still running around, calling orders and shouting at each other while Sherlock slumped himself down the floor at the lost of his older brother.

But it was no time to feel defeated. Mycroft gave him one purpose and that was to survive. If it was mere surviving, Sherlock had never questioned his willpower to do so. What more with the intent to run after his brother almost immediately. He didn't trust Jones but more so the idea that Mycroft was on his own again.

He didn't like how he found Mycroft here in Middle East the first time because it forcefully changed him to someone Sherlock hardly recognized. Mycroft was not fit to fight war in the frontline—he was the man supposedly found behind office tables, near the fireside and meeting halls. Not in front of guns with a torn and patched up body. That was Sherlock's job. He didn't like Mycroft bearing with this because from the very beginning he believed and still believe—

 _Mycroft was not as strong as he thinks he is!_

How could he be sure?

Because the moment he and Jones came inside the house where Mycroft was sitting on the chair, Sherlock's quick eyes found his brother with face pressed hard on his palms and he was shaking. And if anyone had looked closely at all, they would find how vulnerable and defenseless Mycroft was for a brief second before he got assaulted by Jones— and if Jones had any sense then he would've seen how Mycroft's eyes were red from crying before he was slammed on the wall.

If anyone had been looking they would have seen not the man _behind everything,_ but the man _bearing everything._

Sherlock saw all of it and wished he had seen it sooner. _Mycroft was breaking._

The helicopters were on top of the roof in a matter of fifteen minutes. Sherlock stood up from where he was sitting and jumped into the open light of the rescuers with all vigor of a survivor intent on doing another purpose.

* * *

Mycroft lied to Sherlock. He always does.

But to say he still have doubts, that was imaginary.

The land rover roared away on to the desert and travelled far within the next half an hour while he sat in the middle of four Somalis at the back of the vehicle. In the next few minutes he knew his plan would be in action. He knew that by then Sherlock would have been rescued. By then his little brother would have given the coordinates to the alpha leader who would then understand and send the message to the UK Navy whose missile coordinates had been jeopardize by his sister.

If his mother would ask him again, this time he would say it repeatedly: _he did his best._

Because there was no way he would have told the Defense Secretary of his sister's involvement that would endanger her life. There was no way to change the keycodes Eurus gave away without the Navy asking questions. There was no way to solve any of this without sacrifices.

Thus, the only thing in his power to do was to give _command._ Command the _launch_ of missiles at a certain point, c _ertain coordinates_ that would finally put an end to this traumatic experience.

Once his men received his order, then the Navy would fire these missiles and no one can use Eurus as a leverage any longer. The missiles will be used, _end of story._

To where it was headed, well… Mycroft didn't work hard for the past three months for all of it to go to waste. As of now, all the Kingpins, Elders, remnants of AL Qaeda, ISIS and every other terrorists' organization in the world will be attending the awaited Black Market's meeting in the middle of the Indian Ocean to discuss their _'compromise'_. The Jolly Roger report did cite the impeding meeting of this terror groups in order to dominate the South. So then, all that was left was to take them by surprise.

 _No need to capture them. He'll just destroy everything. No need to inform anyone, they were all dead men._

He looked at his clock with the noise of the land rover on his ears. Twelve hours left before then. Jones was driving and he looked simply satisfied through the rearview mirror. If only he knew the counter gift Mycroft would give him that would be sure to surpass that of Eurus. Even Sherlock would find it hard not to praise him.

Yet, in his silent reverie, Mycroft held his hands together and closed them tight as he remembered Sherlock and what it would mean once he realized how he became an instrument to his brother's plan.

 _Sorry brothermine… but something horrible is about to happen soon._

 _But it's alright._

 _I've gotten rid of you._

* * *

 ** _-To be Continued-_**

* * *

 _A/N: *shoooooooook*_

 ** _Thank you for reading!_**


	10. Dead Men Tell No Tales Part 2

***Eyepatch in the Suit***

 ** _by: Whitegloves_**

 _a/n: Sorry for the delay. The chapter is as long as her hair~ *shook*_

 ** _Enjoy the story! :)_**

* * *

 ** _10\. Dead Men Tell No Tales 2_**

* * *

 _There was a broken girl crying._

 _He just stared through the glasses._

 _She was just there, at the foot of the bed with her snow-white arms wrapped about her knees while her bare toes crossed beneath her, limp and numb for not being moved. Back and forth her body rocked, with her long dark hair all over her face, shaking and snuffling like a little lost soul, helpless and hapless whilst surrounded by stone wall. The room hummed with the girl's silent beseeching. Her fingers listlessly clawing her own elbow, trembling. Her white gown hung on her frail body like a curtain._

 _Still, no one came for her calls._

 _He stood there outside the confinement in his smooth and dark three-piece suit and overcoat, as sturdy as the wall with an icy expression and a little bit more. But there was no glint or a flicker in his cold eyes. Not the slightest wrinkle to spare, not even with the heart wrenching image portrayed before his eyes. He watched her, just simply watched her with firm jaw set and whole body stationed till it seemed like he was part of the picture, unmoving and lifeless._

 _It was just another Christmas after the so many he never bothered to count._

 _And she hated him more and more each passing year. Even when she doesn't know it herself, she was bound to. Why else would she torture him like this? Eurus always knew what she was doing. Knew where the burn would always sting. It was her favorite game in the last decade with only one person as her sole recipient. There was no other._

 _She cried and cried more, then after what seemed to be eternity, the girl's sobbing subsided and an eerie silence fell. He straightened with his heart thumping hard as it anticipated what was to come next— then it did as slowly her hair parted as she raised her head and with swimming red eyes in tears, she met the apathetic eyes of her guardian._

 _He didn't bat an eyelid._

 _"Brother?" her soft and trembling voice was enough to move a tender heart, "Please… I don't want to be here…"_

 _He remained unresponsive._

 _"Brother…" the girl began sobbing again, her face twisting in inexplicable pain, her tears welling down her pale cheeks a she sobbed, till it pooled on her chin on to her arms, her shoulders quaking. "Please… brother… get me out of here…"_

 _He watched her still, that lone figure weeping in the middle of the room. His eyebrows remained levelled as his eyes still unrelenting but his fist began to close and his lips to dry._

 _"It's painful…" the girl's sobs were uncontrollable as she wiped her face with her neck collar, "I don't want here, brother, please… I'm sorry… I won't do it again, I want to see mum and dad… where are they?"_

 _She caught his eyes with her pleading gaze._

 _Mycroft merely gave her a dead pan look._

 _"It's painful..." She repeated looking confused and hurt, "Please, brother…why won't you help me?"_

 _"Stop it, Eurus…"_

 _"Brother…" her voice began to raise in desperation, "please, big brother—I have no one—you're the only one who can help me!"_

 _Mycroft's face turned ashen and it was when she slowly raised a weak palm towards his direction that he saw his little sister in that god-awful white dress with streaks of tears across her damp face, begging for him to come to her rescue and take her away, her fingers clawing deep under the roots of his heart he had been trying to bury. Uncle Rudi did say it was the best thing to do—_

 _But that was his little sister._

 _"Please, Mycroft!"_

 _Mycroft shook his head and tried looking away but her voice was the only thing filling his ears—and her beg of help created a sudden turbulence in his graveyard of emotion where he buried everything— on which things began to stir and clamber up to the surface. Eurus was taking control of his emotions—_

 _This made him slam his left palm on the glasses with such a force that it bounced back in the air—shaking and numbing his every finger but it was not the cause of the pain painted all over his expression._

 _He wondered why it never numbed his heart._

 _"Just stop it, Eurus!" He bellowed as he finally found her silent. She stared him down and so disconcertingly too. Unblinking and transfixed as if digging deeper and looking further for any more that she could unbury._

 _A heartbeat next, then came the cackle. A derisive, long laughter._

 _Mycroft knew her charade was over._

 _He spent the next seconds trying balance himself, it was no good to find that his perspiration was cold and his lips dry. There were more things to come from her. It was Christmas._

 _"My~-croft~-" she sung his name in light tunes as she finally stood up, and she wasn't the little girl that Mycroft saw moments ago. She was a woman now for it was Mycroft's folly to always see his siblings in their most innocent form. He could not help it; his memory was damn good for christsake._

 _Eurus glided specter-like towards his direction till she was mere inches from the glass of separation. Mycroft kept his eyes at her, unwavering this time for any show of hesitance would be telling of her success._

 _"Oh, you poor man." Her eyes never had the appropriate countenance, "You don't even know where it should hurt. As heartless as ever."_

 _Mycroft grimaced. "Are you quite done?"_

 _"Not yet. I haven't even begun the fun and you're already sweating. What's wrong? Had too much to bury back down the mental grave where your old-pal 'Pain' rested?"_

 _"It's neither here nor there."_

 _She leered, something which never reached her eyes. "You're not fooling anyone, Mycroft, we both know you have no foundation for the heart. Funny you always look so pale when you visit." She suddenly inclined her head to her left, watching him full in the face. "Or is it I upset you again? How did I upset you again?"_

 _"Eurus—"_

 _"Is it because I appealed for your help?"_

 _"—enough already—"_

 _"Or because you know you don't want to help?"_

 _"Eurus—"_

 _"Guilt is an emotion we both lack so why try to look like you have? Have you been playing with your psyche again, brother? Convinced yourself that you can actually care? Why?"_

 _Mycroft gave her a hard look but could not refute. His silence only made her slowly smile._

 _"See? That's why you're boring. No emotional context whatsoever, I figured you out a long time ago. So, what do you say we make a final deal?" her monotonous tone was disturbing and uncanny, the tears on her face still fresh but already forgotten in her blank eyes._

 _Mycroft shook his head quietly. "No."_

 _"Come on, I know you're completely tired of me. Why waste time? We never needed each other. Come on, agree with me." Her voice had turned sweet, "And you'll never have to be upset again."_

 _Mycroft let that sink in with dark eyes boring on her too. "I can't."_

 _"Why? Despite all your pretense I know you never wanted this burden too, Mycroft, so stop being the lapdog of our cross-dressing uncle and be the man that you are, be free as a bird. You're also a victim here so let's play fair. Make a deal with me. You know these are all unnecessary waste of energy, smart boy like you. So come on."_

 _"No." he was firm. "And even if I could, I wouldn't."_

 _"Why?"_

 _"I have my reasons."_

 _"Huh?" she grunted poker-faced, "A verbal indication that you care. A possible effect of becoming middle-age, hormone imbalance all that. Oh, boy you are losing your touch. I quite enjoyed you when you were my ice-man."_

 _The older Holmes composed himself. "I have a gift for you. It's already there." He pointed towards the deposit counter where Eurus didn't even turn to look. "Don't you want to open it?"_

 _"Unless you managed to break Sherlock into pieces and stuff him there, then no I don't want it. No? Where's Sherlock? It's Christmas, I begged you to give me Sherlock. Like I always do. Your last real treat was four years ago."_

 _"I told you," Mycroft's voice was blunt but selected, remembering Moriarty's visit, "he's not in the country."_

 _She looked pass him like it was just registering. "He's not with you?"_

 _"No."_

 _"Was he that Sigerson on twitter still abroad?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _"So when can I see him?"_

 _"Not yet."_

 _She smiled quietly, her dark orbs lingering in his direction. "I can wait." She then turned around without another word while Mycroft followed her with his eyes._

 _"He still can't remember you."_

 _"Isn't that because you're not trying hard?" she moved towards her bed like a ghost gliding in the room._

 _"He's not ready."_

 _"So you think." She stopped at the foot of her bed and there she remained standing for the rest of their chat. "But all you really have to do is tell him about me and he can come here and play on his own, every Christmas, every week, every day till his very last breath. That way you don't have to bother. Come on." She raised her dark eyes at him but Mycroft only shook his head and repeated._

 _"He's not ready."_

 _"You play unfair, like always. A time will come and I too will have to bury you. You know I'm coming. East wind always does."_

 _"You can do so." Mycroft's tone had turned gruff as he remembered the little boy who used to play with his little brother lost in the darkness of his sister. "So why not put me in the same place where you lost that child?"_

 _"Victor? Why should I? Victor's not your friend."_

 _"It could be your Christmas present for me."_

 _"Bury you beside Victor? Too late."_

 _"Can't you give me another clue?"_

 _"We're over this. You've always been a bit slow."_

 _"It's been decades, I beg you, sister…"_

 _Eurus suddenly turned to him again, her dark eyes catching him unprepared, and her voice was soft and dead, "You're feeling it too, aren't you? Restlessness?"_

 _The older Holmes eyed her. "I simply want to know. For Sherlock's sake."_

 _"Ah. You're about to reveal me?"_

 _Mycroft sighed. "He's been growing emotionally again. He'll find out eventually."_

 _"And then what? You console him that you solved the puzzle so he won't think lesser of you?"_

 _"This is not about the game— it's about Redbeard!"_

 _"But isn't that how it all began—a game? All I wanted was for you to solve my little puzzle but you didn't— and what did you do after losing to me, brother? Do tell."_

 _"For heaven's sake, Eurus—this is beyond your imagination!" Mycroft found his voice rising, a feat that so rarely happens, but then family banter had always been so common— "You killed a person!"_

 _"He would have died sooner or later. He just lost fifty years at most. And your turn's over, haven't you realized it's Sherlock's turn to play? Besides, I have a different place for you to go. Victor's place wouldn't make you happy. Shouldn't we stick to things that makes us happy?"_

 _At that, Mycroft straightened and looked warily at his sister. "What wouldn't make me happy?"_

 _"It's too small."_

 _"What is?"_

 _"Victor's spot. It suits him. But don't worry, I know exactly just where to put you. You won't regret it. And oh—Mycroft, just remember: the song is always the answer."_

 _Mycroft and Eurus exchange long looks and it was one of the last meeting that Mycroft had with his sister when she openly admitted a foreshadowing. In retrospect, Mycroft should have pressed her for more, but with the idea that she was safe and out of anyone's reach and with Moriarty dead, he decided to give her time._

 _A decision that paid a heavy price as time told and a year later, his house was invaded by a clown, 221B was reduced to ashes and that boat to Sherrinford sailed to oblivion. The rest was history._

* * *

 _Orange sky filled half his view as the sun sunk into the horizon, leaving him and the sea before him in a limbo of gray, black and blue, the wind hissing on his ears… only two hours remaining… so?_

"No jumping to the sea allowed, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft Holmes pulled his eyes away from the view as he stood by the railings of the top deck of the ship they boarded not an hour ago. With a Somali pirate trailing his every step, the British Government Head was allowed to roam freely around the top deck as oppose to the role of being left captive in a room. They were in a ship in the middle of the vast Indian Ocean and the prospect of one escaping into a life boat unto the sea was unthinkable— what with the large vessel filled with the most notorious of terrorists and pirates alike. Such a feat would only excite their animal instincts for a hunt.

Besides, Mycroft who had no desire to pull any stunt had been lost in his thoughts when he heard the American's voice behind him. Turning, he found Andrew Jones two steps away from where he stood, in his black suit and a dark shirt underneath with mischief glinting behind his eyes. Behind him, two men in turbans and black masks stood side by side.

"You look good in the suit." Jones suddenly brought up as they stood facing each other and Mycroft had to look down his own clothing, a long dark coat with a white long-sleeved underneath minus the tie. It was left in his breast pocket. He said nothing at the empty compliment and waited for silence to kick in.

When Jones realized the British Government Head was in no mood to exchange pleasantries, he shook his head and went on. "So, how's my file? Any luck?"

"Luck had nothing to do with anything; you of all people already know it is a puzzle. It needs time to be cracked." Mycroft raised the mobile that had been clasped on his right hand.

"Then go on cracking." Jones' hands slipped on his pocket trousers with an air of importance on his expression and what Mycroft believed to be an attempt of intimidation. "I gave the phone to you not fifteen minutes ago— man like yourself have a reputation to uphold, isn't that right, _Antarctica?"_

Mycroft quietly straightened and looked back at Jones in silence. He longed to tell him that threatening him with the codename was already a ship that already sailed. It held no power when all of them were about to reach the end. But seconds later and it passed, his better judgment winning over not giving any hints to what was about to be their fate.

And so, he smiled.

"You're not going to be calling me that the whole night, are you?" he asked testily, rubbing the phone with his thumb. "The probability of luck-guessing a password is over .000000000435% and that's only for numerical combination—"

A hand shot out of nowhere and landed on Mycroft's left shoulder. The older Holmes felt a sear of pain on his well bandaged left side that made him grimace but kept his lips shut.

"Oh, don't play with me now, Holmes," Jones smiled with an evil cheerfulness, "I code-break too, you know. So happens this one is out of my league. I don't know her personally and she had _deceased_ on her file. But you… she specifically said _you would know,_ she even left you a clue… _The Song Is the Answer_? Is it really that hard to remember?"

The grasp on his injure shoulder tightened but Mycroft could feel it no longer. "You have no idea."

"I don't believe you." Jones muttered with lines of impatience striking his features but the older Holmes was undaunted and kept his levelled eyes at the man. "You know the code, I know. You better fix that attitude of yours or I'll be tempted to sell you to one of them from Arabia. They do like your type. They've begun asking."

At that, both men looked at the floor beneath the railings where dozens of men were already gathered in what appeared to be a buffet party, all in different clothing and attire but with one objective upon boarding the ship. Mycroft didn't notice the number grow in less than an hour. He never saw where they came from—speed boats or whatsis— but the idea that they were all in the same ship—him and everyone else that controls the balance of the underground and terrorism—was enough to make him feel the magnitude of his action.

There was no _turning back._

"What would you have me do?" Mycroft asked calmly as he veered his attention back to the weapon's dealer.

Jones shrugged. "What any other sane criminal mind wants— _open the file."_ His grip on Mycroft's shoulder loosened as he put both hands together. "That's all I ask, see? No one needs to get hurt."

Mycroft frowned at him curiously. "Didn't it ever occur to you that maybe Eurus was lying? That there aren't any passcodes needed because there are no missile codes in her file as she made you believe?"

"Yeah? Didn't it ever occur to you that she really only trapped you here? You must also realize it's still a win-win for me because you're still here and I own you." The American's smile that sent Mycroft's eyebrows up to his hairline.

"I suppose… then it also means you don't really need the password since I am here."

"Hey, don't get any ideas, you're the consolation prize. Now give me the codes before the auction begins. You really don't want to fall in the hands of the Arabians. Do you know how dangerous it'll be once I tell them who you really are? You really think I'll come out of here alive?"

"That's a risk you have to take." Mycroft told him unfeelingly. He saw Jones' eyes fall down his hand where he was clutching the mobile and could swear he saw the words in the American's head before it even left his lips.

"Wish you could contact someone now, don't you?" Jones voice was engaging and yet an underlying threat could still be heard. "You've been holding that mobile, so did you try contacting anyone?"

"Not really."

"Want to call for reinforcement?"

"Hardly necessary."

"Yes, forget it. The file's on memory and the mobile's useless and out of range. I'm not that careless to let you call your men who will be haggling me from the Atlantic. So do yourself a favor and give me the code in half an hour. Got that?"

Mycroft's countenance did not change as he turned the phone in his hand. Then with one last glance, he kept his reply short and final. "I'll be in my room."

Jones eyed him suspiciously, but with a side glance and a nod of his head, Mycroft's guard moved and followed the British Government Head who had walked passed the American first and was retracing his footsteps from what he called was _his room._ Walking at the side of the ship, Mycroft stopped to have another look at the setting sun by the sea. His exchange with Jones took a good amount of the view and now there was only the top of the orange ball on the horizon with the darkening sky upon it. It was breathtaking. Now that he stopped and saw it and its radiance reflecting on the sea, he couldn't help but feel a tad rueful. _It was his last sunset and it was perfect._

He watched it for the next second, acknowledging the feelings it brought him for he too was clinging on that last flicker that would soon be consumed by darkness. He was no longer at the heights, he was about to go _under_ whatever under his wasted body would be. Mycroft smiled a little at his own pun and with a pull to himself, he gave a deep exhalation and then went on his way.

It was a large vessel. Mycroft believed it was a cruise ship hijacked long before and made to appear as a civilian cruise— a façade to hide the fact that it was crawling with thieves, pirates and terrorists all over the seven seas. Unsurprisingly, it was a cruise ship Mycroft recognized as he boarded it with that name written on its side _Mein Schiff,_ obviously a German word for _My ship_ but belonging to the Sharm El Sheikh land of Egypt. Well, whether it was stolen or someone influential from said country was pulling the strings, he never bothered.

Mycroft really didn't care as he made his way to his room without even paying attention to the man hauling that machine gun after him. The amount of care he could be damned to give when it would be raining with missiles in 120 minutes was laughable.

What amused him further was while half of passengers carry noticeable weapons and arms, it was also filled with _men_ wearing formal suits. An obvious show of power and influence even to the criminal class. Then Mycroft remembered Jim Moriarty and wondered if he had anything to do with the tradition.

 _Well. He could ask when they see each other in the afterlife._

Turning to the narrow aisle of rooms, Mycroft entered the second door after the main exit and closed it without bothering his armed companion. The room was a VIP access and the older Holmes had no trouble settling in as he dropped himself on the couch at the center, threw the mobile on the table before him and buried his face on both his hands.

He let all the air in his lungs out. He didn't bother with the phone anymore, he had deleted the Davy Jones file without prejudice right after it was given to him and no, he didn't have to solve the puzzle— _he lived the puzzle._ With Eurus indicating the clue in her email as _'The Song Is the Answer',_ Mycroft knew at once that the password in itself was the key to the song. The same key Sherlock had found to decipher it.

 _Nemo._

Which begs the question— _Eurus knew that he would be trapped in her final game. She knew that he would do everything in his power to find the Davy Jones file. So why did she have to use the song again as the clue? She knew by then Sherlock and the others would have found Victor's body. So why was the song still hanging even on his death hour? What message was she trying to give him? Did she mean for him to agonize over the meaning of the song till his last breath… or was she simply reminding him of its essence…_

 _Nemo…_

 _No one…_

 _'I had no one, Mycroft.'_

Her voice never really left him. _Death_ was defining his every waking moment and more than anything it was always her voice that would govern his thoughts. Not even Sherlock's. It was always her that was trapped in his subconscious, goading him, mocking him, blaming him for being the slow brother who couldn't even figure out squat in a song she meant for him to uncover. He was _supposed to figure it out,_ _it was a child's game!_

 _You failed me and now look where we are._

Mycroft didn't know how long he had stayed in his mind palace but the perspiration that had built up on his forehead and the coldness of his face suddenly made him start up and glance at the clock to his left. Half an hour had just passed and he found himself collapsed on the couch without remembering ever lying down. Straightening himself after recovering his composure, he was just about to get himself a glass of water when something in the room rang.

Startled, Mycroft had to double take just to see the mobile's screen lit up. Blinking several times, he reached for the phone and looked at it curiously. This was supposed to be out of service or so Jones thought. The American wouldn't have given him any chance to contact anyone so why was this phone working and receiving a call at that?

Betting on the probability that Jones was testing him, Mycroft pushed the answer button and then heard the shock of his life for on the other line was a familiar voice—

 _"Hello? Mycroft?"_

The color on Mycroft's face drained. _"Sh— Sherlock?"_

 _"Yeah, it's me— where the bloody hell are you?"_

"W-what—how did you—?" Mycroft didn't remember getting on his feet.

 _"Your damn Secret Service managed to use the satellites—I got Jones' number from Garlack's phone before I obviously destroyed it. I'm contacting you from their headquarters in Yemen—where the hell are you?"_

"Did you give them the coordinates?" Mycroft's heart did a summersault at the prospect of failing.

 _"Of course—they disappeared immediately with it—but what do they mean 'missile plan'? Why are they talking as if they're planning like it's D-Day all over again? It's a rescue mission, isn't it?"_

Mycroft managed a smile as he walked towards the door and checked that it was locked.

"Never mind them. I'm glad you're alright."

 _"Don't bet on that yet when I'm planning to crash their strategy area and make demands of my own."_

"Do that and they'll throw you back to London."

 _"Oh, good. Then I can go get John and we'll crash the strategy area and make demands of our own."_

"Don't be ridiculous and mind your temper. Nothing ever gets resolved with your recklessness so I ask you to conduct yourself and let my men do their part. It's a critical planning, brothermine, that which requires you to stay put and behave."

There was a considerable amount of silence, to which Mycroft heaved a silent sigh at hearing Sherlock's lively voice, before his younger brother's tone turned dead serious as he spoke again.

 _"You're lying to me again, aren't you?"_

The older Holmes stiffened. "Why?"

 _"Your people have not the air of men ready to save their captain, they barely even mentioned your safety at all. So stop lying and tell me the truth—because from what I see they are trying to do exactly the opposite. D-Day opposite with saucing of missiles getting launched instead—they said it's an order from above—what the hell is happening?"_

Mycroft had walked around the room as he listened to his brother and couldn't help the knitting of his eyebrows.

"Oh, Sherlock. Must I point out everything to you?"

 _"Just tell me!"_

"Where's the fun in that? Go figure it out yourself—I'm hanging up."

 _"I'm calling from half the sphere of your location and you will WHAT!?"_

"Receiver's prerogative. In any case, I don't have much time. You sure you haven't figured it out?"

 _"If I'm going to be smart about it and with you probably with that smirk on your face—then I'd say they're actually planning to sink your ship with the coordinates that you gave under your order."_

"That wasn't so hard, wasn't it?" Mycroft stood his ground and bowed his head. His younger brother's breathing even stopped as he spoke and he could just make out the wide-eyed expression of his brother— an effect that till this day Mycroft was proud to say only he could pull. It took seconds before he felt his brother breath on the other line.

 _"What the hell does that even mean?"_

"Exactly as it is. I think brother, this is the part where people say their goodbyes."

Silence followed his statement. Even Mycroft suddenly felt heavy as he pressed his thumb forefinger at the bridge of his nose. He thought he heard Sherlock gasp but it could just be the work of his ears having been exposed to too much salt air outside. And then Sherlock finally spoke again.

 _"You don't mean that."_

"As a matter of fact, I do. Since we're miles apart, I might as well be honest with you—"

 _"Why would you that?"_

"I don't know—last minute feeling of guilt?"

 _"I meant your plan! Why would you do that? Why would you practically shove yourself in a situation where I can't even jump in to save you!?"_

Mycroft had to admit he was taken aback at his brother's outburst.

"Because I never meant to be saved. No— listen, Sherlock—this is really not about what you _can_ do for me. I made up my decision. It's by far the only solution I can finally commit to this unending game between Eurus and myself—"

 _"And you never thought I was part of that too?"_

"You've done your part. You've saved her, Sherlock. In her context."

 _"What are you talking about!?"_

Mycroft shut his eyes at the hysteria Sherlock never displayed before which made his head ache for some reason. "It's something I could not have done for her—she never let me. You have to start considering her mental faculties, Sherlock. We can't always just accept things as they are— _it's not only just it is what it is—_ but what it was and what will be. Eurus, she… she wanted to be saved, Sherlock. I didn't do that even when I had the power…"

Silence again, but Mycroft never doubted him because he knew Sherlock was listening to his every word. That this younger brother of his no matter how stubborn and inconsiderate, was always hanging for his every word since they were children. And that he found himself at the end of the line, Mycroft could feel his mind palace breaking at the idea of _dying._ Thoughts that he hadn't given a second to consider were bursting out of his mental grave and rising, rising to be known. He swallowed hard and continued.

"I abandoned her, Sherlock. _She had no one._ I know you must've realized too. You know I did not _do my best._ "

 _"I had no expectation of it from the beginning. You were being you."_

"Which means a young foolish man who let his fear get the best of him and his sister who was only in need of attention? Had I given it much thought, Sherlock I would have understood that she—Eurus only wanted us to pay attention. She had no desire to kill Redbeard or else she wouldn't have given those clues! She was only a child acting on _human whim_ with a desire to be _loved! She envied Victor! A human behavior amplified by her psychosis in which I did nothing about!"_

 _"You couldn't have done anything—"_

"I could have paid more attention." Mycroft said a bit sadly, "I could have saved her, but instead I left her and caged her far away and a good distance for the benefit of own comfort… I was subconsciously pushing her away, Sherlock. I had no right. So everything turned into a game for her and I don't blame our mother is she slaps me and tell me how much I'm worth! A limited person who could not even listen well to his sister's plea! I don't deserve to be called the older brother, Sherlock. Eurus is as much as my victim as I am hers. I should not have shut her down."

 _"Why are you defending her?"_

"Because it's the only thing I can do for her now." Mycroft whispered softly with heavy eyes and trembling lips, "She deserves my apology. Please give her my regards." Mycroft breathed with a hand passing over his face, "You must not blame her for this, Sherlock. It was bound to end this way. Eventually."

Silence met his ears again but it did not last as Sherlock spoke, " _I don't care about any of that now. What am I supposed to do about you? How can I help you?"_

"You're not supposed to."

 _"Stop yapping, give me something that will stop your idiot men in pushing the big red button!"_

Mycroft actually chuckled. "I can't. Nothing you will say will stop everything now. The navy's bound to follow my orders, it's in the highest note. It explicitly means a spy managed to get their key codes and they have to get rid of the weapons as soon as possible before it gets compromised by anyone else. Thus, the landing is in the middle of the ocean, to the exact location I indicated. This is war, brothermine."

 _"War is by no means the only solution to your every whim—use your brain for god sake! Mycroft—"_

He held his breath. "It's over, Sherlock."

An inhale and a lost silence.

 _"Mycroft, please. Do something."_

The older Holmes turned the mobile away as he controlled the turmoil that had begun to stir at the pit of his stomach and was making his whole face hot. He already had made peace with his decision but this was beginning to shaken his resolve. Walking to the nearest couch, he spoke again.

"Sherlock, listen." He pressed the phone next to his ears one last time, "You never believed in immortality. You understand why this has to happen—"

 _"No, I don't! I want you out there—I want you to get to the lifeboats and sail back here! Your job is to survive!"_

"Sherlock—"

 _"NO—DON'T!"_ the younger Holmes bellowed deeply that rendered Mycroft speechless, _"Don't you tell me you meant for this to happen! Don't ever tell me your sacrifice is the smart choice! You know you're not thinking straight! So listen to me and do something! Don't you dare fail me on this, Mycroft! Don't you dare!"_

Mycroft pressed his eyes close and paced on the floor.

 _"Please, Mycroft."_ Sherlock's voice uncharacteristically shook. _"Please, for me. Save yourself!"_

Mycroft slumped back defeatedly on the couch with his face on his hand, his other firmly holding the phone like it was his lifeline. Sherlock was a good man. _He was the better man._

"I'm proud of you, brothermine." Mycroft breathed on the phone, but then seeing the seconds on his watch, he shook his head. "But I'm sorry."

 _"MYCROFT!"_

 _"Goodbye."_

And he hung up the phone and clasped it with both of his hands, his head bowed near his chest.

There were so many things he wanted to tell his brother, but he imagined that would only make it difficult for the two of them to move forward. Not that he had useful knowledge left to impart, Sherlock had grown into such a person Mycroft was happy to admit he was going to be proud of. If only there were more time to watch him grow fully into someone in full capacity of his faculties and his human emotion: _a creative genius_.

But then, all good things must come to an end, and for him—checking his watch— comes down into the last 50 minutes of his life. He was a dead man walking. Mycroft threw the phone on the table he considered now useless, wiped his warm face with both palms and was just about to stand up when he heard someone tinkering with his doorknob. Frowning, he turned his face at the door, wondering if it was about time for Jones to show up again who would pull him in front of the most desirable wanted men of the world when he remembered he had deleted the Davy Jones' file. He shot the phone a look and was just about to snatch it when the door opened and came in his guard.

Mycroft managed to snatch the phone, but it was already too late when he realized that the Somali pirate had barged in and was already beside him with his weapon raised. A moment next, and the said pirate pulled his black mask away from his face revealing none other than—

"Oh, geez." Mycroft cried with all energy draining from his body as there just a step away from him stood his younger brother in that dark outfit of the black turbaned pirates with a broad grin on his cheeky face.

" _Hey, bro."_

Mycroft ogled at him long enough with his mouth open. Sherlock met his eyes with a ready smirk.

"What are you doing here?!" the older Holmes cried.

"Uh, saving your life?"

"But—but on the phone—"

"I was calling you from the outside. _What_?" he asked defensively when his older brother kept gazing at him as if seeing a very mean ghost. "I knew what you were planning—you really think I wouldn't know you had other plans with the coordinates? Am I really just some kind of an idiot to you?"

 _"How could you do that to me—"_

 _"I always do things to you."_

"But you gave my men the coordinates?" he sat up, a strange flicker of urgency on his eyes. _"Sherlock?"_

"I did. Which means this place is still going to be blown up—a highly risky strategy but I really appreciate it. Who can resist a good scenario up close?" Sherlock removed the machine gun from his middle and placed it on the table as he checked his watch, "Which only gives us uh… 30 minutes maximum to jump on a speed boat if we plan to not get sucked by the whirlpool." He glanced up at his brother with another smile. "Shall we?"

Mycroft blinked several times, still unable to believe—but he might as well do so when this was his younger brother pulling on one of his own tricks in what was supposed to be his _perfect plan._

"I'm not going anywhere!" he said stubbornly, not standing.

"Well, I hope you're prepared to be hauled inside a sack and dangle on my shoulder because I'm obviously not leaving here alone. You sure you want to waste time?"

 _"You're insane!"_

" _Ditto. Now move—"_ he reached for Mycroft to which his brother tried to pull away—

 _"And how do you propose to leave here unnoticed!?"_

"Leave that to me—I have my share of sneaking around!"

 _"Let go—I'm not suicidal!"_

"Oh really?"

"Sherlock—"

But his younger brother had already pulled on his mask and machine gun before giving him a dirty look.

"You move or I'll make you? Isn't it more sensible to give it a try than sit here and wait for the sky to fall?"

Mycroft breathed, and then quietly collected his thoughts. The excitement his brother's presence gave him was not good for his heart, that much he knew. He could still feel the shaking of his limbs and because of what— _because Sherlock was there ready to risk everything to save him?_

The older Holmes fell silent as his head cleared. Blinking, he finally stood up with eyes falling on his younger brother.

"Changed your mind?" Sherlock asked with a leveled look at his older brother.

"Well, when you realized your younger brother has attached on your lifeline like an octopus, one is bound to do an action." He replied drily. "You're an idiot, you know that, Sherlock?"

But Sherlock only smiled. "My favorite word."

The two exchange mutual looks that somewhat eased the panic Mycroft had been silently feeling. It was no good. A new sense of hope he didn't think he needed was fighting its way back to his consciousness. It was the effect Sherlock always had.

 _Hope._

"You know there are about a hundred pirates out there?" he asked his younger brother as they strode towards the door with Sherlock already spying the outside. "How do you suggest we wade ourselves out?"

"Have you forgotten?" Sherlock opened the door and turned to his brother, smiling. "We're pirates too."

The older Holmes sighed in defeat as he followed his over energetic younger brother outside and realized this was just the kind of game Sherlock Holmes would play. And he was getting sucked into it like how Sherlock would always call for him to play when they were children.

Feeling a bit calm, the brothers headed for the main door at the end of the wooden hall into the chilly night sky that had enveloped the sky the moment the sun disappeared. Sherlock and Mycroft stood side by side, exchanging silent glances and nods till they found themselves walking among the passengers in the main dining hall outside the hall. There were already hundreds of people there, mingling and talking with air of severity and tension. This was after all, a Black Market's organization. Somewhere in the middle, pirates and terrorists alike will have negotiations and—

Mycroft's thoughts were halted when Sherlock's hand shot out of nowhere and grabbed him by the upper arm, halting his movements. Struck, the older Holmes threw his brother a look. From where he stood, the older Holmes could just see that his brother was looking at something he couldn't see. Wondering what on earth it was, he followed his brother's line of vision and then gasped at what he saw.

It was like a cold bomb was dropped inside his stomach and Mycroft staggered.

For there, standing in the middle of everyone else, mesmerizing in her dark gown and glowing dark hair cascading down her exposed back was none other than _she. There was no mistaking her familiar dead eyes._ The epitome of fear in Mycroft's subconscious. _How did she...?_

And that was when Mycroft realized that _no one was going to come out of there alive._

* * *

 ** _-To be Continued-_**

* * *

 ** _A/N: *ten times shooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooook*_**

 _THE EPILOGUE AWAITS!_

 ** _Thank you for reading!_**


	11. Dead Men Tell No Tales Part 3 END

***Eyepatch in the Suit***

 ** _by: Whitegloves_**

 _a/n: This is some brain zinger! Don't get lost!_

 ** _Enjoy the story! :)_**

* * *

 ** _11\. Dead Men Tell No Tales 3 [End]_**

* * *

 ** _[A Prelude] Fifteen hours ago._**

Discontented, grumpy and disagreeable were only some of the words John Watson could think of to describe his current mood as he stood rooted on the spot with eyes focused entirely on a monitor hanging just in front of him. He was in his dark jacket and casual trousers, comfortable shoes and a full acid expression he normally wore when Sherlock was being stupid. To define stupid here would mean being out of touch for months after hooking John with the details of _retrieving_ a certain agent that was lost amidst terrorists and pirates alike. John would have given anything to accompany Sherlock with the mission but with the intricacies of the details, not to mention to absolute inconsistencies that Mycroft Holmes had left behind which made him appear _suspicious_ , Sherlock advised that it was best for him to go alone.

 _A load of good it did him and now he too was gone._

Pacing on the floor, John scratched the side of his nose and mulled over his last resort to jump in and take action if today didn't pan out in any way he wanted, wondering if his old buddies from Iraq and Afghanistan could give him access to Yemen when he heard the buzzing sound of someone opening the glass door of the room he was presently occupying and found himself facing the Lady of whom his last string of hope was attached.

"Dr. Watson," Lady Smallwood smoothly greeted as she crossed the room without breaking her route towards the table, her inch heels making that clopping sound that made John stood rigidly. She placed documents on the table and once facing the doctor, she offered him the chair opposite the table which John casually brushed aside and remained standing instead. Lady Smallwood took the gesture and settled on the chair behind the table, pulling on her dark coat and putting both hands together which John didn't find consoling.

"Do you know where they are?" he began.

She met his eyes. John waited.

"There was an order to raid the Southern region of Yemen in Alhawta. We believe it's the current position of the Holmes brothers. CIA operatives had just reported the success of their mission not ten minutes ago and managed to retrieve _one."_

John stared at her without blinking, his anticipation getting the best of him.

"Who?"

"By description, I think it is Sherlock Holmes."

The doctor bit his lower lip. "And Mycroft?"

She shook her head. "The details are still unverified and whatever happened to Mycroft— only Sherlock Holmes could enlighten us now." She gripped her hands again and looked at the documents she left on the table. "I'm afraid this has reached the level of more than just finding out what happened to him."

John frowned. "What's that mean?"

She looked up, her expression a matter-of-fact, "Mycroft's actions have been suspicious as of late, and whether he was working for the interest of the nation or his own, I'm afraid this doesn't bode well for him _._ That is, if he even plans to come back alive, what with all the lines he's crossed and questionable things he's done."

"Seriously, who puts the bar?" John opened both hands in a shrug, "He's been doing shady things as far as I remember and you're only going to judge him now because what— _he's not in the country?"_

Lady Smallwood reached for the documents but only tapped it with her forefinger.

"I cannot disclose any details, but from our point of view on evidences, it has reached a certain degree of alarm." She eyed the doctor again, "One that could pass for _treason._ "

Startled, John took a moment before he stepped towards the table and placed both his hands on its edge. "Look, I'm not a big Mycroft-fan but I know from our acquaintance that he's the most loyal, if not _upright_ servant of the nation and if you're telling me that this man who's served your office for half his life has committed treason then maybe it's your documents and evidences that needs rechecking."

Lady Smallwood was silent for a while, before putting both hands together again, her striking eyes not leaving the doctor's.

"I applaud your loyalty, Doctor Watson, and I know just what you feel. I was also in that position, determined to believe Mycroft much more than anything… why do you think I conducted my own investigation?"

John slowly straightened with eyes falling on the documents. "You conducted your own—?"

"To prove Mycroft's innocence not for the sake of the government, but for my own satisfaction. I'm afraid the results were not on his favor." John stared at her hard as she continued, "If anything could par with Mycroft Holmes' loyalty to the nation… don't you think it's his family?"

John bit his lips again, and then chuckled. "You're kidding?"

She gave him a levelled look, but the doctor shook his head.

"The man put both his siblings in prison just because he thought it's the right thing!"

She nodded. "He's also the man who sent his younger brother on deathly missions without as much as blinking an eye."

"See?" John was still frowning at her unconvinced expression, "So if you're saying Mycroft's attachment to his family has made him do inconceivable things then you really have to check your facts. Mycroft is never overly sentimental. My god, the man barely visited his sister after Sherrinford—don't you think that's saying something? The last time I saw him he was convinced he couldn't do anything for her sake and would not even try! He was more concerned with a parking ticket for christsake."

"So, you really think Mycroft is incapable of—"

"Feeling?" John gave her a flat stare, "I think that ship has sailed a long long time ago, I don't think— and I thought you know him better than I do?" When she didn't reply, the doctor shook his head, "So I'm begging you not to escalate anything until we know further about what's going on. I'm sure Sherlock has an answer."

Lady Smallwood straightened her back with eyes on her documents. "That's why I have not raised this to the Cabinet's attention. If anyone should know about this first, I do think it's Sherlock Holmes."

John nodded, "So are we going to hear from him soon?"

"I asked the unit to make contact immediately. I'm waiting for the line to open since they're to connect here, it's been five minutes." She barely finished her words when the main phone on the table suddenly rang. Lady Smallwood watched it ring for a second before briefly exchanging looks with John before taking the call.

The voice on the other end made her put the receiver down and hit the speaker phone.

"Sherlock Holmes?" she called much to John's relief.

 _"It's me—"_ came the familiar voice of his best friend that got the doctor stepping towards the phone—

"Sherlock—Sherlock can you hear me?"

 _"John?"_ there were radio statics in the middle but the connection was still clear and the doctor heard his best friend calling him again, _"John—Lady Smallwood—?"_

"She's here, keep on talking!" John nearly planted his face by the telephone, "What's happening? Where are you?"

 _"I'm on a chopper heading straight to Balhaf!"_

Lady Smallwood looked taken a back.

"I knew it." John gave another sigh of relief, but his face was grave, "So Mycroft's alive? You're coming after him?"

 _"Yes—that idiot's planning something idiotic, again—"_

"I see you made the Special Operations Unit follow your instructions?" Lady Smallwood was frowning. "What have you found?"

 _"Why don't you first tell me if you know anything about coordinates?"_

"Coordinates?" Lady Smallwood glance up at the doctor in bemusement, "What are you talking about?"

There was a sigh on the other end.

 _"I knew it. So there's no rescue mission involved with these coordinates."_

"What coordinates?"

"Sherlock, Lady Smallwood doesn't know anything your brother is planning." John answered for the lady had looked as blank as he was if he looked in the mirror, "Mycroft's working on his own."

 _"I figured. Why do you think I'm headed to Balhaf? I need to catch the ship before it sailed to the middle of nowhere."_

"What coordinates are you talking about?" Lady Smallwood inquired, now seemingly urgent.

Sherlock hesitated, John felt it. "Sherlock?"

 _"It's something our sister plotted to have Mycroft running down in Middle East. Which reminds me, how's Eurus? Is everything alright? Any anomalies—inexplicable escape perhaps?"_

"No, I don't think so." John turned towards the monitor behind him distractedly, "She's the same as the last time you saw her. Unresponsive."

 _"How can you be sure?"_

"Well, you did tell me to look after her while you're gone." John quietly said with a glance back at the phone. "I mean, I've been going back and forth in Sherrinford to the last couple of days. I'm here right now, Sherlock."

 _"Did she do anything suspicious? Like a week ago at most did you see her anywhere near a computer?"_

"No, she's pretty much the same."

They heard Sherlock clicked his tongue impatiently. "Lady Smallwood you have to explain yourself—was there anyone— _anyone who you can name who wants to come after my brother in the higher ups?"_

"Mr. Holmes," Lady Smallwood's voice sounded urgent. "Does this have anything to do with your brother's profile?"

 _"Yes—dammit we're in the middle of a war and you let someone hack over something so important!?"_

A long silence, John straightened again with an ominous feeling building in the air as the lady looked down the documents on the table, and with carefully chosen words, she went on, "Mr. Holmes, it isn't who you think it is."

John frowned at the Lady but Sherlock beat him to it. _"What do you mean?"_

"That profile." Her jaw squared. " _It's inexistent._ " Silence met her words. John averted his eyes from the phone to the lady who went on, "Your brother had no existing profile in our archives. He was the one who insisted it would only _cause trouble_ because he didn't trust anyone. Imagine my surprise when I received a report it was _hacked."_

There was a tiny gasp at the end of the line and the doctor could just see his best friend going wild in his mind palace as something occurred to him in the middle of everything.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

 _"John, are you sure Eurus is there?"_

"What do you mean—of course I'm bloody sure."

 _"Are you outside her room?"_

"No, but—"

 _"What if it's all computer simulated—?"_

John was already running towards the exit of the room before Sherlock could finish his words.

"Bloody hell." He muttered as he made his way to all the entrances with his passcode able to open doors till he found himself running in the familiar hallway heading to the direction of her room. Once outside the last door, and with a suspicious glance at the men guarding the doorway, John immediately threw himself forward to the limiting glasses, his eyes falling immediately to its captive.

John swallowed the excitement that was reverberating in his body. Then he nodded more to himself as he saw her sat still at the edge of her bed, immobile and expressionless but solid, nonetheless

"Yeah…" he sighed, "Yeah, she's here."

"She's really there." Lady Smallwood told Sherlock on the other end, watching John Watson catch his breath outside Eurus' glass room. "And if you must know, Sherlock, it's not from her account that the Davy Jones file actually came from. It was made to look that way. It's not her, Sherlock. _She's not the enemy."_

The consulting detective seemed aggravated. _"Why, what did you find?"_

"I had Sherrinford investigated in the absence of your brother and it turned out—"

 _"Let me guess,"_ Sherlock interrupted with deep set voice, _"Uncle Rudi?"_

* * *

Sherlock tugged on his brother's arm as his eyes scanned the crowd and saw more of Garlack's men for it was him that he saw in the middle of the crowd. The deck was huge and filled with pirates and terrorists where he knew the Kingpin was bound to be part of the so-called _'Summit'_ but to actually run into him in the middle of their escape was a probability he didn't anticipate. Garlack does have a beef with him with regards to the mobile phone, and he doesn't even know if the kingpin knew Jones had taken Mycroft in the ship but he wasn't going to stay long to find out, so taking his brother by the arm, he was about to stir him away when he found Mycroft immovable on the spot, like a stone statue fixed on the ground.

"Mycroft," he hissed, walking behind him and was surprised to see his older brother's pallid face. "Mycroft?"

But his brother was not budging an inch, nor was he showing any sign of hearing him whatsoever. Alarmed, Sherlock followed where his brother was looking and only saw Garlack. Was his brother reacting to some past trauma with the kingpin?

 _"She's here."_

Sherlock froze upon hearing his older brother's voice and looked at him full in the face.

"Who's here?" he whispered slowly, his hand not leaving Mycroft's arm.

Without breaking his line of vision, the older Holmes heaved a deep sigh.

 _"Eurus."_

Sherlock shot the spot where Mycroft was looking again, then looked everywhere else. With a startled look, the younger Holmes began beckoning towards his brother with some uneasiness.

"She's not here, Mycroft. That's impossible."

 _"No."_ Mycroft's voice shook, and when it did, the alarm in Sherlock's head went wild that despite their position, despite their play, he crossed his brother's path, stood in front of him and looked him in the eye till Mycroft was looking back at him too. The sweat pouring on his face and the fright reflected on his eyes only made Sherlock blink and raised a reassuring hand on his uninjured arm.

"Mycroft, listen," he whispered softly and was glad his brother seemed aware of his presence, "Eurus is not here. I know it. You have to snap out of it."

Mycroft's eyes flickered to his younger brother, and then towards the spot where he thought he saw her and then blinked several times. There was something in his expression that the younger Holmes didn't quite like but with time not in their favor, Sherlock looked back at where Garlack was and then to his brother.

"We have to get out of here."

Mycroft didn't say anything but it was enough for Sherlock to pull on his brother's hand again as they wade themselves out of the throng— all the passengers had already lulled themselves in the false sense of their securities and were all busily making acquaintances with others no matter how grim. Sherlock was not surprised to find the ship oozing with the most wanted of men and women but it was not his priority to butt heads with anyone. He has to get Mycroft out before their real enemy comes out. But the brothers haven't taken much step away from the center when Sherlock found himself getting tugged back to a stop. Throwing a look behind him, he was staggered this time to see that Andrew Jones had caught his older brother by the arm while his other was holding a bottle of beer.

Sherlock immediately let go of Mycroft's hand, which fell on his older brother's side limply, and raised his black cloth mask to the bridge of his nose. Jones looked like he was enjoying himself as he took a full swig on the bottle he was holding, with a gun exposed on his belt.

"I see, you've decided to join the party?" the American breathed as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "I wasn't planning on calling on you till the auction."

Mycroft didn't say anything and Sherlock wasn't sure if it was registering to his brother that Jones was right in front of him. The American noticed it too and narrowed his eyes."

"You seem awfully distracted. You were pretty cool before I left you in the room. What's the matter? Having cold feet?"

Sherlock stood firmly behind his brother, but kept his eyes on the ground. He didn't like his brother conversing with Jones at this critical time, especially when Mycroft looked so out of it.

"I promised you the codes… I see no reason for you to sell me to the Arabians." The older Holmes said quietly.

Jones gave Mycroft a surprised look but it wasn't only him. Even Sherlock had to look up as the American shifted on his ground and smiled a little. "But you've already given me the codes."

Mycroft stared at him. "No… I haven't."

"You did, we even made a deal out of it—back in the camp." Jones smiled again with a curious look at the older Holmes, "I've seen the codes, even prepared a long speech before I reveal it to this market."

Mycroft continued looking confused. "But this afternoon, we spoke… I haven't given you the codes."

Jones stayed his eyes at the man, but it didn't take long before he barked out a laugh and took another swig from his bottle. Then pointing at Mycroft, he chuckled more and shook his head.

"We haven't spoken since lunch… ah, I get it. You didn't have enough rest? I mean the pressure, Mr. Holmes. I understand, you should take a rest. You." Jones suddenly motioned for Sherlock to come near him which the younger Holmes did but with eyes still down. Approaching the American, he stopped in front of him long enough to let Jones whisper on his ear.

"Bring him back in the suit. And make sure he stays there, got that? I'll collect him myself. I wonder what he noticed that made him think the Arabians want him. I better check on that, you don't ignore super observations like that."

With that, Jones nodded again and turned his back, while Sherlock with one last look at the American, turned on his heels towards his brother. Mycroft was staring at Jones' disappearing back too, before his eyes fell on his younger brother who had approached him quietly.

"What does that mean?" Mycroft asked incredulously, "I saw him—I spoke to him— _you were there!_ Weren't you? Since when were you tailing me?"

"I told you since I boarded the ship."

 _"Blast you, why didn't you reveal yourself sooner?"_

"I couldn't give myself away, could I—?"

"But you were there! You saw we've had a short exchange around sunset!"

Sherlock fixed his eyes at his older brother and shook his head with a slightly poignant look. "No. You only stood there, Mycroft. No one approached you. I should know, I was beside you the whole time."

Mycroft shook his head insistently. "But I don't remember giving him the codes…" he mumbled.

"You did." Sherlock confirmed, now giving him a heavy look. "We've discussed this the night before… I know of the deal you made, Mycroft… Look—" Mycroft's mouth open but no words came out, Sherlock watched him with some apprehension, but then shook his head again and took his brother by the arm. The poor man looked so fatigued.

"We have to get out of here first, let's figure it out once we're safe." But Mycroft refused to be budged.

"I don't understand…" he sought Sherlock's eyes with a flicker of earnestness, "Did I just forget—?"

Sherlock gently clamped both hands on either side of his brother reassuringly. "You're tired. Your bound to forget one or two things—"

"Sherlock, it's _me."_ Mycroft said rather testily, eyebrows raising.

"I know. Now come on, we can't dwell on something inexplicable when we're all so tense."

"I just don't understand—"

"Believe me, I've waited many years for you to say that. Now, come on."

"Sherlock!" when it was apparent the younger Holmes was not going to give him an answer, Mycroft sighed, "Right, and how exactly do we proceed from here?"

"Safety boats."

"Excuse me?"

 _"Move."_

Tugging on his older brother, Sherlock mechanically pushed his way on to the crowd, leading to the corner where the exit of the banquet was found. The whole ship was crawling with men carrying heavy set of weapons, guardsman in the shadows of their masters and then pirates who lurked about in dark corners, eyes suspicious of everyone and watching everyone's movements. Sherlock was careful not to draw attention to himself or his brother. Once he saw too many men huddled together and talking inauspiciously. His instinct as a consulting detective kicked in and his curiosity nearly got the best of him once or twice as he saw familiar faces in the international crime list— some number one most wanted in Mexico, United States even Asia—in one of those groups in striking conversations. That was enough to remind him how they were playing in dangerous waters. To have all these men here, right now at this very moment where his older brother impeccably planned their demise sound almost _too farfetched._

Yet, here they all were, all gathered together because of that _final enemy._ Sherlock couldn't believe it was him, but with all the evidences gathered that pinpointed his man, there was no denying it. And as a general rule he had always faithfully followed, _'Once eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'_

And the truth was _never simple._

Then Sherlock stopped as he glanced at those men again, his mind palace hitting him hard in the head, if that was possible. These men here were all gathered—but who was the root of everything? Who initiated an era of pirates and terrorists working together? And for Andrew Jones to be fashionably put at the center too. Sherlock was sure Mycroft would scold him for missing all connections when it was served in front of him. Then again, the _facts_ seemed to be lost in Mycroft too and between the two of them that was never a good thing. The real question now was how to break it to his older brother?

After a moment of deep thinking and realizing there was but one answer, the younger Holmes emerged from his head with a deep sigh. Some truths are of no importance when time was of the essence— _they had to get out of there before the attack—_

"Mycroft, we—" Sherlock looked around him only to realize that Mycroft was nowhere in sight. Perturbed, he was sure that seconds ago there was his brother's shadow right behind him when his mind palace swallowed his attention. Shooting looks around, Sherlock took steps back to where he came from and then travelled his eyes again. Panic rose deep within him—for how could he afford to lose Mycroft now when any moment that person could appear? He looked around and only saw men with their guns, men in their black turbans, men in their suit— _and then a lone man retreating into the shadows towards a stair—_

As though electrified, Sherlock quickly followed the familiar back he couldn't mistake as his brother. With 30 minutes on their clock, he bolted right up the stairs that lead to the back of the ship. Reaching the top and finding himself in the stern, the cold breeze of the night hit him despite his warm garment. Then Sherlock saw that the stern was quite empty, except for the man standing in the middle of the wide space, breathing heavily and with head looking in all direction as if seeing something others could not. The consulting detective clenched his teeth.

 _Must he tell Mycroft that he knows who was behind this now before it's too late?_

Sherlock strode towards his brother, but had to stop a few feet away as this time he knew, Mycroft had noticed.

"What are you doing—we cannot waste time here we need to go at the portside—" he called, looking around and making sure no one was on sight and removing the black cloth from his mouth. The older Holmes stood still, and there was something about how his shoulders sagged and his head lowered that the younger Holmes understood he was about to tread on the real danger of the game. "Mycroft?"

"I saw her again…" the older Holmes replied his tone lifeless, "I followed her."

Sherlock stopped dead. "She's in Sherrinford, Mycroft—she's not here—now let's go."

"You're wrong. _She's here."_

Sherlock stared at him, standing there in the middle with hands on both his sides like a specter. It made the younger Holmes blink as something occurred to him. "How long have you been seeing her?"

Mycroft moved his head but he didn't look back. "Couple of times. I'm afraid she's escaped."

"No, Mycroft, that's—"

"Why do you suppose I keep seeing her?" came the anxious tone. "But then she would always run away."

"She's in Sherrinford," Sherlock repeated, taking time in stepping closer to his brother, "Now, we really have to go."

"She made me think of that before. To find she was already closing in on you…" his voice trailed off, "And if she isn't here then why is she haunting me even in my conscious moment?"

Sherlock rooted his feet on the ground, not too far now, and transfixed his eyes at his older brother. What could that mean? Mycroft's words implied that Eurus had always been in his dreams, in this case his subconscious. The term had Sherlock's eyes widening as the pieces of the puzzle inside his head suddenly electrified and connected each other—and just like those Eureka moments he understood now, why it was possible for the crime to even happen under Mycroft's nose.

"Mycroft, do you remember why you're here?"

There was a short silence, before he replied. "Yes… I came to save her from herself."

"Are you sure that's the real reason?" he stepped forward.

"What else is there? She planned to destroy the world and I came to stop her, like I always do. But she still wouldn't leave me alone. She keeps haunting me, more so than before…" he gulped. "Why do you think she's doing this, Sherlock?"

The detective hesitated. "Because you've become… too vulnerable."

Mycroft slightly looked behind him. "Oh?"

"Brothermine, you're seeing a ghost," the fact that Mycroft missed it was alarming.

"A ghost?" a dead beat and his older brother's tone shook. As if he's realized and was making his body go cold. "Does that make you one too? _You're also not here?_ "

"No… no I'm afraid I'm real. Lucky for you too, I came. To tell you that it's enough."

"What is enough?"

"This… whatever you've done."

"I don't understand." Mycroft swallowed hard. "You know what's happening, don't you? You're all calm and collected."

"Because I need to be." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "For both our sake."

"Enlighten me."

"I uh… We don't have time."

"And I won't move another inch until I understand."

"Mycroft—"

" _Sherlock."_ There was a warning tone there as he faced his younger brother with solemn eyes. Mycroft had never looked so nervous. "Tell me. What do you think is happening?"

Sherlock hesitated again, knowing that he was stepping on a landmine he didn't think was just before his feet. It had crossed his mind the minute Lady Smallwood gave him the evidence, but had to dismiss it—only to be proven right again. And to think it has reached the level beyond his imagination—he doesn't know if he has the right equipment to deal with his older brother's predicament.

 _How do you say it to someone like Mycroft Holmes?_

"You see her, Mycroft, because your subconscious, your fear of her has reached its limit." Sherlock paused, sensing something much more treacherous than the upcoming airstrike, "You've noticed it too, haven't you?"

Mycroft made no attempt to engage, and so finding it was his job to burst his older brother's bubble—a job he would have paid to get, but now regretting every minute of it— Sherlock Holmes closed his fists, dared another step forward as he never felt the need for his courage more than now. Because it was one thing to realize that their sister was never involved in this conspiracy—and it was another to find the real _enemy._

"Eurus had always been the core of your _repressed emotion,_ and I don't blame you, really Mycroft—"

Mycroft inclined his head a little, now frowning. "What are you saying?"

"Eurus was never the enemy. You only made yourself believe she was—"

Mycroft stood straight, his lips parting open. " _Are you suggesting—I am framing her?"_

"Not exactly." Eyes glinting and knowing now that his brother needed help, Sherlock went on, "You made Eurus a pedestal of fear— an idea so upsetting and disturbing you shoved it aside in your subconscious— and that's why your subconscious had always known how destructive the thought of her is. That's why it wasn't hard to make you believe she was center of all the terrible things happening. But, she was never part of this Davy Jones scheme _. You only made yourself believe she was._ Because it was easy. _"_

"Don't be absurd." Mycroft shook his head slowly and his ashen, empty face was enough to worry the consulting detective, " _She sent out the Davy Jones…_ she called for Jones through Moriarty… I didn't give Jones any code as far as I remember—"

"That's as far as you know but I know it—Jones did too—you've given the codes." Sherlock cut him as he watched his brother carefully, "And Eurus was already unable to process any thing the moment we finished the game in Musgrave… you saw her."

"But she could have sent the Davy Jones file before Musgrave—"

 _"The file wasn't sent from her account!"_

Mycroft stood rigidly and stared at Sherlock as if seeing him for the first time. "What?"

The younger Holmes suddenly found himself fearing what he was about to say. A rare occasion indeed. But he really was afraid not for himself, but for the man who was so broken he didn't even realize he's been in pieces for so long.

"Mycroft— I… Eurus cut off any communication from the outside of Sherrinford when she had us. She didn't want to risk any spoilers in the game in case one of us tried to communicate—there was no way she was able to send the Davy Jones file to anyone—let alone a connection from Moriarty—the man who thought he could finish everything with us killing each other! There was no beta plan for them! They wanted to end it right there and then—Eurus had no desire to get you— _she only wanted context!_ "

For the first time, an expression enveloped Mycroft's feature: panic.

"Sherlock…" he whispered, "what are you… what exactly are you saying? That there is another person behind all of this? It's not Eurus?"

The younger Holmes' face darkened. "It's not her… but yes, there is someone very dangerous. Someone whom as I understand… you don't even know _exist._ "

The older Holmes held his breath. _"Who?"_

A beat, and Sherlock never pulled his eyes away from Mycroft as he finished— _"You."_

Sherlock let silence fall, his own mind whirling at what he had discovered along the way after having a conversation with Lady Smallwood. She had given him all her findings and all pointed, at the very end, to the only person capable of an international scale manipulation—there could only be one.

Nevertheless, to find out the man himself was unaware was making Sherlock feel uneasy. It was better to face a criminal who boldly claims rights to crime— it was another when said criminal was helpless and in the mercy of something he cannot control. In his older brother's case, the extent of devastation was heavy. Sherlock couldn't help feeling that it was his lost too.

Mycroft stared at him in disbelief. "What the blazes—?"

"Mycroft, I am with you—I never thought it possible until I saw the pattern. _You're the only one who fits the category!_ The only person who can do this magnitude of planning—connections and even position. All those terrorists in one ship? The CIA? The raids? What do you think were you doing when you're out with your band of pirates all over town? _Who knows the passcode of the submarine missiles? Who even knows about Andrew Jones?_ You made yourself believe Eurus can do all of this— but the fact that she can't illuminates something in the dark—that with her out of the picture who else can do this? _Who else is most capable?"_

"You're out of your mind!" Mycroft bellowed and with some indignity that had Sherlock stepping forward. "Are you accusing me of this crime—I don't even—I found the Davy Jones file! I saw Eurus' message to me, it was her!"

"No." Sherlock gave him a hard stare, "And it's about time you eliminate the impossible too."

Mycroft looked thunderstruck and even stepped backward unconsciously. "No… no…"

"Mycroft, the fact that you're denying it is a real relief to me than I care to admit." The younger Holmes went on strongly, "At the same time— _I fear for you._ You not knowing any of this—but it still points back to you! You've noticed that there's something amiss with everything happening that you've been neglecting to pay attention. You've distracted yourself so much with the game that you didn't even notice _him_ come out. _You never thought it possible._ But brothermine, eventually when the brain takes over, even you will be unaware of the action it takes."

Mycroft shook his head. "But it's _not possible_ because then I would have noticed!"

"How could you when the very thing I speak of is your subconscious? You know I'm right!"

"Prove it!"

"Lady Smallwood retrieved the CCTV footage of you setting it all up in Sherrinford." Sherlock breathed hard, "I don't know what—but you probably snapped at that moment of your confinement while we were in Musgrave! _You're the one who sent the Davy Jones file!_ You may not be aware of it—because you were not meant to!"

"Why would I even do that?"

 _"_ I don't know…" Sherlock's voice trailed away, "I honestly don't know… but if it's your unconscious mind working… if the motivation is so great that you planned it in your head to be here right now… I can only think you want to punish yourself."

Mycroft vigorously shook his head. Sherlock kept his hold.

"Mycroft," he began again seeing his older brother whose face had lost the remaining color left, "I beg you not to question me when you're aware some part of this don't make sense. From the very beginning, think of the only person capable of an all-our-war like this one, brother. Eurus had been incapacitated for many months. And your profile—a nonexistent profile that was sent from your own office—who else is qualified of releasing such a record? And who even began this summit in the first place, gathering all the most dangerous persons in the world. Are you following me, Mycroft?"

"Profile?" Mycroft looked at him blankly and by then he looked like he was about to faint. Sherlock was liking his deductions even less. Briefly, he explained the encounter with Garlack and his phone. A piece of information that had the British government head blinking hard. "Is that why you smashed it to pieces?"

"You miss the point."

"But I don't ever remember…"

Sherlock pressed a final sigh. Mycroft now was looking terribly alarmed.

"My god, Sherlock… you really think that I—you mean I wanted all of this to happen?"

"Your subconscious wanted it, I'm deducting base on what I know. How else do we explain your handy work here? But even if you're behind everything—if you're mentally unstable—"

 _"No, stop it—I do not have a maniac on the loose— I do not have any sort of— alter ego!"_ his voice echoed in the night.

"No, it doesn't have to be an alter ego— but some unconscious level. You know your brain is extremely powerful! Think of your brain as the combination of a hundred normal brain, Mycroft and then all together they snapped—"

"You idiot—"

"No, really? The man who's pretended to have an emotional scale of a toothpick—? _Wake up, Mycroft—you're human!_ All the things you did in the past—everything from the very beginning— _you can't repress and suppress all of that without consequences!_ Eventually whatever your doing will lead to self-destruction! _Look where we are now!"_

Mycroft began pacing the floor with a very wounded look. _"Are you saying I'm insane!?"_

Sherlock grabbed his brother's arm and held him firmly. Looking him in the eye and making sure his older brother understands— it was important to be clear— "I'm saying I'm here to help you. Alter ego or not—it's your body working on demand of your unconscious. We both know something's wrong, brother—you did not forget the deal with Jones, and you did not send out the Davy Jones file— it's your brain, Mycroft, it's so powerful it's even fooling you. It's like sleep walking—"

Mycroft groaned and put both palms on his face, making Sherlock smile briefly.

"So, the best thing for you to do is to _trust me,_ Mycroft _."_

But Sherlock was still wary because he was certain _it_ was there _._ He missed it before but he remembered seeing him—the first time he saw Mycroft in Aden with those men coming out from a tavern. That wasn't his older brother. _He saw the ring leader._ He remembered sensing then and admitting that yes, there standing in his older brother's body _was the villain. The real pirate wearing the eyepatch behind the suit_. Though it made him wonder why he hasn't met this side of his brother, but then an occurring thought came next, that may be his brother's saving grace.

 _"_ I'm sorry to say brother, but no matter how we both try to find it inexplicable— _you suffered a lot."_ Sherlock went on, finally able to begin with the right words, "You can be resilient, but to deny it for so long—no one can do that without repercussion! And after Sherrinford—you were never the same. Something triggered."

Sherlock went back to a time of telling Greg Lestrade to look after his brother but how does one like the Detective Inspector see that this was already happening? The younger Holmes wondered if it was then that this 'subconscious' had appeared and got triggered.

"The only trigger I ever worry about is _now._ " Mycroft suddenly put a passing hand on his forehead, "Good god, how do I know I'm still me, Sherlock?"

The earnestness that Sherlock saw behind his older brother's eyes only made the detective clutch Mycroft's arm tighter.

"Because I'm here." He replied quietly. "It's a shot in the dark, but I've never met your subconscious part… I can only assume somehow your subconscious knows I must live in your awareness. That there is no need for you to be another around me."

The Holmes brothers exchange looks, and there was something in that exchange that was both assuring and warm. Mycroft had never looked so vulnerable and Sherlock was not enjoying witnessing it for his brother was meant to be strong. It then made him wonder if this act of resiliency had something to do with Mycroft being Mycroft.

He watched the older Holmes pressed his dried lips and gave a short nod after a time to breathe air.

"That's encouraging. I only hope it's true."

"Don't give yourself a reason to change to anyone I don't know." Sherlock warned him, finally letting go and sighing again. "But if he does come out, I'd encourage a long final chat."

The older Holmes heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. "This is insane."

"No, not really." Sherlock looked towards the stair as he heard the noise from the banquet, "What you plotted unconsciously _is insane._ Now we have to get out of here before your subconscious gets a whiff of what's happening and get the best of me."

"You're afraid of it?"

"Terrified." Sherlock turned to his brother and pointed towards the opposite exit stairs going down, "As much as he can become a challenge to me, I can't take him on when we are so in the middle of the ocean where I can easily have the temptation to drown him. Now stay put and stop tempting me."

Sherlock crossed the stern quickly after checking his watch and finding only ten minutes left. Raising his head, he walked over to the edge of the ship and looked down onto the dark sea, to the lifeboat hanging by the edge while Mycroft stood still behind, watching him. Sherlock leaned a little forward, aware of the parts of a ship and where lifeboats would be located. From where he stood, he could only see one boat covered in a blue tent-like piece of textile. Running to the other side, he found another boat at the edge and decided this was on better angle not to be seen. Although the splash it would make would probably make a ruckus and attract attention, he was sure the next event in ten minutes time would get all of their enemy distracted.

He just needed to time it all—

"Ten minutes is not enough to save us now, brothermine." Mycroft's voice came from behind him as Sherlock turned and saw him still just on the spot where he left him with that pallid face, "I'm sorry it had to end this way."

"What did I tell you?" Sherlock said with much confidence as he took something from his hidden pockets and dialed, eyes on his brother, "I didn't come here to die, and neither are you. All we have to do is reach the portside, we have to reach the stairs, jump to the lifeboat and release it once the time comes."

"But the missiles…"

"There are no missiles." Sherlock clamped the ringing mobile on his ears and gave his brother a know-it-all look. Mycroft looked back questioningly. "What? You think I'd really follow your plan and give the codes to your men? I lied— _I didn't trust your brain's plan, okay?"_

"I see." The older Holmes said quietly. "So, we're safe…"

"Not quite." Sherlock raised a hand as he heard someone answer him, "There will still be an attack. The Navy's closing in and we have to get out of here before war breaks out. Hello—can you hear me? Yes, I got him. I did, I interfered with the ship's radar, you won't be seen when you close in unless someone's using a telescope in the middle of the night. Yeah, we're about to jump in, are you near?" Sherlock looked up in the east side and sure enough saw a flicker of light from some distance. They would be saved. Taking this as a cue, he turned the mobile off after estimating his calculated position of lifeboat and was just about to call to his brother when he noticed that Mycroft was no longer standing close to him.

Sherlock looked around and saw him again and this time standing at the bow of the ship.

Sherlock froze as Mycroft was standing directly at the edge, his whole body was swaying side to side from the wind's blow. It was when all plans were forgotten and all Sherlock could think was the image of his brother carelessly standing behind the safety railings with his back turned against him.

In a few strides, Sherlock tried to close the gap, only to be a few feet short as he masterfully called on to him. "Mycroft…. What are you doing?"

Only the sound of the waves met the detective's voice and for a moment he was afraid the older Holmes wouldn't reply. But then—

"You lied to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock held his breath as Mycroft's soft voice halted his further movements.

"You said she wasn't here." Continued the man in dead whisper, "Well… she's standing beside me."

Alarm went off in Sherlock's head as he grasped what was happening—that no this was not merely his brother channeling with his unconscious mind— _his subconscious has been taken over by Eurus' mentality—_ that she had planted an image in the darkest recess of his mind—or Mycroft's subconscious did and is not acting on its own—and to what end—? _Why was Mycroft so fixated like this?_

"Mycroft," Sherlock dared take steps forward, knowing that if he didn't his brother would really do it— "She's not here! Don't listen to her!" He would have reached her had Mycroft not chose that moment to put his hand on the metal railing that got the younger Holmes to stop with his heart hammering on his chest— _"Mycroft!"_

"She's singing. _Her ritual."_

Sherlock felt chill run down his spine but he managed to inch a step forward and attempted conversation to buy some time. "Why is she singing that? What's that for?"

"She's always sung that before me… when we're kids… in Sherrinford. _Every night in my sleep."_

The consulting detective had moved forward but with his brother facing him, he could only raise his hand.

"Reach my hand, Mycroft. Come on!"

"She wanted me to tell you a little secret."

Sherlock saw Mycroft's eyes fall on him and there was not glimmer of hope there. Just _dead._

"What?" if he jumped at his older brother now the man would lose his balance and he would topple backwards onto the ocean. If he didn't do it, Mycroft will fall backwards anyway. If he pulls the man down however…

Mycroft blinked slowly. "Well, I shouldn't really tell you, should I? After all, _dead men tell no tales."_

And to Sherlock's horror, saw his brother slip backwards and plunged down the deep ocean, unto his doom.

* * *

 _ **-Epilogue Next-** Thank you for reading until this very part!_

 ** _*Eyepatch in the Suit will take its last bow!*_**


	12. Sink or Swim: Epilogue

***Eyepatch in the Suit***

 _by: Whitegloves_

* * *

 **Sink or Swim: Epilogue**

* * *

 ** _I that am lost, oh who will find me…? Deep down below…_**

 ** _Help succor me now the East Winds blow Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go._**

* * *

 _Minutes before the great plunge…_

It was a sensation Mycroft hadn't felt before. Like his head was being ripped from all corners and expanding—stretching wildly into a space he couldn't control. And the agony was so much it was enough to make him cry out, only that he couldn't make heads or tails of what to feel first. He had to blink several times for his eyes were in pain, god his eyes were burning. He couldn't access in his mind palace too—his only sanctuary for answers—for whatever reason it would not open for him, blocked and denied. His fear rose higher even when he realized how he could not make a reason of things— nothing made sense—something was not right. He had to open his eyes.

When he did, he had to double take as he found himself standing on the edge of what appeared to be a ship railing and below were feet of darkness in space like a mantle cloth with wrinkles as its waves. Mycroft felt himself stumble and grabbed on the railing for support. How he managed to stand before his death, he had no idea, he could not even remember how he got there. A tugging feeling that someone was behind him made him slowly looked back and there he found his younger brother, Sherlock.

Relief washed Mycroft's features to see a familiar face, much more his younger brother. If anyone could help him with something he could not understand, it was surely his detective genius. Mycroft wanted to tell Sherlock to come over at least for he could not feel his legs. Why they were even on a ship, he could not recall; it could be one of those bad dreams were Sherlock would be nagging him about being a pirate only for everything to spiral down and his dream would end with Sherlock in his tiny little voice calling out to Redbeard. His dreams always had a touch of the Gothic. Mycroft stood there, waiting for the young man to come but when Sherlock didn't move a muscle but simply stared at him with his forbidding dark eyes, Mycroft had to stop.

For those forbidding dark eyes looked so similar to another one and to see it on Sherlock's features was making Mycroft hesitate. Why those dark eyes belonged to Eurus, and to identify that one was like the other was a fear the older Holmes had always buried deep in his subconscious.

Before he knew what was happening, he found Sherlock standing before him; Mycroft opened his lips, then felt Sherlock's firm hand on his chest, holding him on an arm length distance, pushing him not to come back. Confused, Mycroft looked and searched the young man's face only to find his dead pan expression—much like of that with their younger sister—staring back at him with equal nonchalance.

"Sherlock?" he whispered with dead silence following his voice.

And it happened as quick as lightning and he staggered backwards till he left the railings on to the end—and falling he was—the sensation of the wind had not caught up with him fully when he felt his body hit the solid-like mass of water that knocked the air out of him as coldness seeped to his very skin and there was nothing.

One thing played on his mind before everything else shut down however: _Sherlock pushed him._

 _But why?_

* * *

The water was cold, it was an endless pit… he was sinking. _Did Sherlock push him?_

 _No, he didn't._

 _He wouldn't. Not ever._

"Mycroft…" he was still sinking. Down… down…

 _Sherlock Holmes was a lot of things but he would never turn against you._

"Mycroft… _swim…!"_

 _He did on so many occasions…_

 _He never pulled the trigger and he never pushed you…_

"Mycroft…"

 _So, what happened? Why was he…_

 _If it doesn't make sense, what do you think? Your brother would never kill you._

 _But I spent the rest of my life thinking he would._

 _Eurus' game proved he couldn't._

 _He wouldn't. Not anymore._

 _"Mycroft…!"_ the familiar voice shouted on his ear and it destroyed the remaining veil of unconsciousness—

An inhale—and a full pang of pain on his head— and his whole body shook so excruciatingly he didn't know where the initial pain was coming from. He coughed and coughed— and his whole body shook. There was a first few moments where someone was telling him to concentrate on breathing—followed by a firm instruction not to move. But there was nothing on his ears except the drumming of his chest—like it had suddenly remembered how to function after nearly forgetting it. When he tried opening his eyes, his whole world swirled and he had to focus on breathing on his mouth and sucked much air and was reduced to crying in pain after another second.

The pain was coming from everywhere; it was from his arms, his ribs, it was his head—the numbness was not a word his head could fully register. Everything was raw, everything was right there and no aid was there to come except that voice that was constantly holding on to his consciousness as he sunk deeper and deeper.

 _"Breathe, Mycroft… breathe!"_

It was Sherlock.

And wanting more than anything to see his brother—the one who was insisting that he live rather than the other form who pushed him on his doom— _Mycroft opened his weary eyes._

There was his younger brother, staring at him from the dark veil of the night sky. His face was pale and damp, his usually unruly dark hair was dripping wet and plastered on his face. His whole clothes were soaking wet like he had just emerged from a storm or even the ocean.

The ocean.

Mycroft blinked several times before he could feel that he himself was soaked, and moreover, he was freezing. He was lying on his back on what he realized to be a boat—a small boat that was swaying to and from with his younger brother balancing right above him. With another cough and a sputter of water from his mouth, his instincts to discover what was going on motivated him to try and sit up but Sherlock put a firm hand on his chest.

"No, don't move." Sherlock warned and there was an expression of relief on his tone that set Mycroft staring at him despite the confusing circumstances he found them in. "You might've cracked a rib or two, I don't know. But the rescuers are coming in a minute…" he looked up distractedly as if expecting people to come running in towards them.

Mycroft only stared at his brother's face. It was the only thing that was making sense.

"Wha…t?" he managed to utter but the pain on his chest was too much he didn't try again.

Sherlock took one look at him, and sensing that his older brother needed to understand for it had always been mutual to them, the younger Holmes settled beside him in his dripping garment and let out a long, heavy and arduous sigh. Mycroft watched him, though moving his neck every now and then was painful too but he managed.

"S'rong?" he hoped he could utter _what's wrong_ any clearer.

Sherlock had dropped his head on his arms and stayed like that. But after a second, as if realizing more important things to do, he looked right back at Mycroft whose eyes never left him.

"Are you feeling alright? Any pain? Broken bones?"

Mycroft didn't reply and Sherlock nodded and mainly scanned his brother's body under the moonlight.

"Rescuers are coming, I promise," he repeated, looking far ahead, "they're just… busy." He looked ahead of him as if seeing something Mycroft could not. "Your men… the Navy's already surrounded the Black Ship. There's six fleet of them. Negotiations are on-going, if not I think war will break out. But we're out of there, it's up to them. It's been five minutes since you fell in."

 _Fell in?_

Mycroft mustered all his strength to remember but there was nothing there. He wanted to ask Sherlock but his brother had now transfixed his eyes beyond what he could see. _On to the Black Ship?_

And just like that—like something popped on his head—everything came surging back in. _Of Davy Jones, the pirates, Jones himself, the spy, Sherlock's final conclusion of his subconscious and falling down on to the great water— with his own brother pushing him._

Mycroft felt rattled and his hand automatically grabbed Sherlock's arm. The consulting detective looked back at him in surprise. _Would this man really…no… No, Sherlock would never kill him, which only means…oh god._

The older Holmes gripped him tight—and from there he tried sitting up. Seeing the disturbance in his brother's white face, Sherlock calmed him by putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder and looking him straight in the eye.

"You're safe now."

 _"No."_ Mycroft's newly found voice even surprised him, but he was pushing himself now, afraid that _it_ would come back and take over. He believed that now—a man like him who had studied the psychology of the mind for his sister was a victim of its fragility and power, he believed that to be true. _Because Sherlock would never kill him and if his mind was suggesting such a thing then it was quite clear now— he needed help._ "Sherlock—!"

Sherlock's full attention was on him. "Mycroft, calm down—"

"I have to…"

"Stay..."

" _You pushed me—"_

Slight confusion creased Sherlock's forehead. "What?"

Mycroft shook his head and shut his eyes. Opening them back, he found his younger brother still watching him with concern.

"Mycroft, do you remember what happened?" he quickly asked.

The older Holmes didn't respond. The memory was no longer clear. "I fell," he whispered when he was able to, "deep down... I don't know."

"Why did you say I pushed you?" it was an important question.

"My… head seems to be under that impression."

Sherlock leaned down on him, the pressure of his hand on his arm making him pay attention. Sherlock's dark eyes was again looking at him as it did before, but instead of deep darkness there was a light there—a kind of light he had always seen that his younger brother had innately possessed. A light neither he nor Eurus ever had. _Hope._

"You know full well I didn't." It was important for Sherlock to say it. "Mycroft—you know it— but do you understand it?"

A long pause, and he replied. "I understand."

Silence fell between them, and the last thing Mycroft heard before drowsiness caught up with him was the sound of warning from many ships—and consequently the sound of gun fires and explosions.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

* * *

A lot of inquiries happened to what the world now knows as the _War at the Gulf_ supervised by the three nation's navies—United States, Great Britain and Australia who came to the aid of Britain when it called for available war ships in the area on such a short notice. Information flocked the internet days after as number of casualties rose to a hundred—mostly naming international criminals and big names of terrorist groups who all vowed to get revenge, but with their activities immobile at the lost of their heads, lots of other government took charge of stomping out these organizations that lead to a worldwide campaign of finally destroying terrorist cells. Rats were purge, spies were caught and nameless people who acted suspiciously upon the news that the bosses had all been killed were arrested and thus began an era of change.

Details of how the War of the Gulf even happened was unclear. The news only carried facts of how terrorists held a summit of what was only supposed to be a Black Market's exchange, the Navies were tipped-off and had been circling the Indian Ocean before the horrendous war broke out that killed nine military men. In the end, a clearance was given that after firing back and seeing the criminals inside the ship were fleeing and threatening over radios of how the world will suffer the consequences with remotely no intention of surrendering but used their trump cards— hidden bombs and massive shootings in countries— Britain Government gave the order and missiles were released.

And there never was a mention of any connection of those two individuals who were left on a boat for an hour floating from miles away with a lone man watching the whole events transpire right before his eyes in grim silence.

And never will their connection be known.

Sherlock had an arduous meeting with the Cabinet Office right after coming out of the hospital for medical checkup. His stunt of jumping on the lifeboat from such a height and having the said boat slam down the ocean right after had shattered some tissues on his leg muscles—not to mention his exertion at jumping in the water to locate his drowning brother within seconds were enough reasons for medical attention as John Watson had recommended.

"You're insane." John had told him when he rested in one of the hospital beds in a white, comfortable room after getting successfully retrieved by the Special Operations in the middle of the ocean. "Totally a nut job!"

"What am I supposed to do—let him drown?" Sherlock complained, more to himself rather than his best friend, the vision of his brother going overboard and getting devoured by the dark ocean still fresh on his mind, "The initial few seconds of falling from a great height is critical and he's already injured in so many places. How many ribs did the doctor say he's cracked?"

"Several."

"He's susceptible to drowning—the cold shock response of his body won't even be accountable for it."

"It's a good thing you quickly found him," John sighed as he shook his head, "with hypothermia and all that crap—he's really lucky to even survive. Imagine if he fell on the North Sea… anyways, how many minutes before his heart beat returned after CPR?"

"I counted two minutes, I reached a hundred and fifty pumps."

"And did he really think you pushed him?"

"If he blabs that on proper authority, I may have an arrest warrant for attempted homicide by now. Won't be my first."

"But Mycroft won't really—"

"Of course, he won't…" Sherlock's voice fell a tone short, "At least, not the Mycroft I know."

John stiffened and his concerned brows met. "What you're saying about Mycroft's case… is that really possible?"

But Sherlock had fallen silent and his eyes drifted to the wall, to the area where he knew his brother was resting under the observant eyes of the Intensive Care Unit personnel where no one was allowed entry. Sherlock's only assurance was the constant beating of the heart his older brother was loathed to admit—only for it to be his saving grace against the battle with his brain— _because if Mycroft's heart wasn't on the right place then be damned the world will be in greater peril._ It was after all, his heart that set his mind right in pursuing what was good—otherwise none of those hostages needed to survive. Mycroft needed not turn his attention to the criminal class and channel them just to punish himself. _He could just be like Eurus._

 _Unfeeling and unattached_ It was his heart that set it all right. The brain, as it was, just followed the pattern.

"It happened." Sherlock said after a few minutes more as he locked eyes with his friend, "But I don't think it will get worse. I hope."

John looked at him sympathetically. "Well, Lady Smallwood will surely get the report of her life."

Upon meeting the Lady a day after, however, Sherlock only had one thing he wanted to say.

"My brother had been unstable since Sherrinford, even before he began this mission. His mental instability will be his defense to whatever charges your government will be plotting against him."

The Lady gave him one of her sharpest stares, before throwing a black folder on the table between them, the raise of her thin eyes brows not lowering its standard. Sherlock watched her, before turning his attention on the folder. Its title was blank.

"This is a report of Mycroft Holmes' successful mission in Middle East." She began with equal firmness and authority Sherlock had never seen any other gender give aside from his big brother, "Unfortunately he was gravely wounded in the undertaking and needs to have mental recuperation taken care of immediately. He is therefore relieved of his responsibility of this Cabinet until further notice, or until we can make sure he is well. In all aspects. I do not know what you mean by charges of the government. _This is his government that only wished for his well-being._ We're not all reptiles here, Mr. Holmes. At least, not on our kind."

The two exchange looks with Sherlock giving the Lady a sense of gratitude he again had never felt to anyone other than his family in 221B. Then he realized, this was Mycroft's family side in the works.

"Thank you." It was the only thing he could say as he pressed his lips closed.

"How is he?" Lady Smallwood's voice could not conceal its warmth despite the straight face she was showing.

"He's back to his old self, being pompous and all. He's out of the hospital now." Sherlock replied, feeling it was his duty to pay her back in kind. "He's back in his home. John's looking after him."

She nodded, still hanging for his words, "And this 'it' you said was there. Has it shown itself?"

Sherlock shook his head. "But I'll be bringing him out."

"What?" the perplexity in her expression was understood. "What do you mean you will bring it out?"

Sherlock sighed and looked determinedly back at her. The moment his older brother had spoken to him that morning upon waking up, signaling that he had no recollection of the events farther than boarding the ship, reverting to his old self of _Mycroft being just him_ and ignoring the claims that he needed help, Sherlock already decided the next step to take.

"It's about time for my brother to face his demons."

* * *

A week since their rescue, Sherlock knocked on Mycroft's door and was allowed entry in a second. The past few days had been all for recovery and dealing with the government and convalescence that left the Holmes brothers seeing each other in between resting and waking in the morning. Sherlock had decided to stay in Mycroft's house for the time being, still haunted with the possibility that any moment this persona that Mycroft's brain had adopted may rise from its slumber.

Resisting the idea was Mycroft who had done everything in his power to have things return in their normal state, except having his younger brother in his household which he quoted as 'Already like kicking a dead horse' and 'defeating the purpose of normalcy'.

Sherlock won only after threatening him with the idea of informing their parents. Naturally, Mycroft had to bow.

Coming in the room, Sherlock skipped all the Victorian furniture, tapestries and portraits to locate his older brother standing by the window in his gray three-piece suit with a hand behind him. The curtains were open and he was soaking himself with the light of the sunset, a habit he had adapted ever since he was able to stand on his own feet in three days' time.

"Sunset again?" Sherlock called as he closed the door behind him and strode towards his brother.

Mycroft turned, revealing he was holding a wine glass on the other hand, his levelled eyes still unlively, much like the same Mycroft Holmes.

"You brought people." Came the calm and collected tone as he stood frozen on the spot.

Sherlock removed his thick coat and placed it at the back of a comfortable chair near the fire side.

"John came with me."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose up characteristically and still ever calm. "I said _people."_

Sherlock eyed him, and then nodded, "And a _friend."_

"I don't remember you having that much list. So, who might that be?"

"Mycroft, we talked about this." Sherlock said in exasperation as he crossed the room and stood in front of his brother. "Stop boring yourself, I told you I'll bring him in."

"And I told you I don't need him."

"And I told you I won't listen."

"And I told you please do."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and swiftly took the wine glass from his brother's hand and finished its content with one gulp. Mycroft sighed at the gesture and walked around the room carefully yet listlessly, till he reached the fire side. By the time he looked back at the younger Holmes, Sherlock had already placed the glass down and had now followed him at the heart of the room.

"This… this person you say… is he someone we can trust?"

"Yes. Otherwise I shall have to hunt him for the rest of my life."

"Sherlock, you know I can't…" Mycroft heaved a sigh, his eyes on his brother, "You know I never trusted anyone… Not with something as critical as this."

"He's a German Doctor."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better? What if he's a spy?"

"He's John's medical friend, they met in Afghanistan way back." Sherlock interrupted before his brother could give him any other reason to postpone the meeting, "He's an expert in his field. He's been studying human psyche ever since his brother died of mental illness. He knows what we're going through."

"Sympathy will not help us if this is of government concern."

"You're no longer a government worker." Sherlock stated plainly. "You're just Mycroft, my brother."

"So what—you bring in a man whose hypnotic prowess can even make me believe I'm as high as a kite?"

"Only if you start taking in cocaine—no, _he's here to help."_

 _"I don't want help!"_

"Say that again when both of us had plunge down the sea where you inadvertently blame our sister and turn to someone I don't know."

Sherlock saw his brother's face set again, but the firmness of his resolved not to let anyone in was slowly waning. Defeatedly, the older Holmes walked towards the couch and sat there quietly, pressing both his hands together. Sherlock could not help but feel reluctant at the idea as well, seeing how his brother was struggling. But seeing too that he was making a breakthrough at making him see his need, the consulting detective sat on the table opposite him and looked his brother in the eye.

"I'm sorry. Look, Mycroft… I would never let anyone or _anything_ bad happen to you. You know that." He saw Mycroft's eyes bore on him, and much more than uncertainty, it was only sad. "But if our enemy—if the enemy I have to face is _you—_ I'm afraid of what I'm going to be subjected to do again. When I thought you were intentionally working on your own, just the thought that somehow you had snapped and turned on an enemy of everything we believed to be right— for a second I thought I found the best enemy."

"You know you did." Mycroft chuckled.

"Yeah, but it didn't involve any game over—there was no winning or losing like our mental games. There was just _you_ not being _you anymore._ I thought I lost you, Mycroft. I never wanted…" he pressed his lips as it was mutually communicated as Mycroft looked away. Sherlock sighed and continued, "So if this means awakening him—or partly talking to him to know why he even existed—to make sure he would never again resurface—a thought that can make me sleep at night, knowing you're safe, I'd take the chance. _I want to help you solve this,_ but this time brother, we cannot do this on our own."

There followed a very long silence wherein the two Holmes just looked at each other. Until Mycroft broke the connection and bowed his head.

"You were always so reckless." He said quietly.

"About everything?"

"About everything. Especially when you jumped on that lifeboat. That was at least three story high."

"You fell like log on the water that was at least six story high, what'd you expect me to do? And why's everyone questioning the height I jumped and not how I calculated my jump?"

Mycroft heaved a sigh with lips thinning. Sherlock watched him closely.

"You ready?"

"As long as you don't talk me out of all the codes the government has entrusted me."

"Oh, believe me. My interest is beyond your silly government secretology."

He clasped Mycroft's shoulder before standing up. Heading for the door, he looked back to find Mycroft had buried his face on his palm. Not wanting to prolong the agony, he opened the door where John and the German physician who has a built very much like Mycroft's except for his dark beard and square glasses. The moment he came in, Mycroft stood up. John and Sherlock exchange looks as a little introduction was made of one Dr. Hoffmann. Dr. Hoffmann and Mycroft quietly exchange greetings but enthusiasm was one thing not to be expected from the older Holmes.

When everyone was settled and Sherlock sat beside Mycroft who had refused to say another word, Dr. Hoffmann glanced at John before turning to the Holmes brothers with a soft and controlled voice.

"Mr. Holmes, I am a medical man of specific expertise— one that wonders on the psyche of the brain—"

"A Freudian, no doubt." Mycroft replied shortly. "Among many things."

The doctor smiled. "Indeed. My practice allows me to well on the conscious and subconscious state of my clients but I cannot do this without securing your trust. The brain resists, otherwise. I need you to trust me."

Mycroft's expression did not change, yet— "I have trust issues, I'm sure you'll find out sooner or later. And if you had known the impossible was needed before you begin to offer your solution, why bother come at all?" he turned sharply to the younger sibling, "Sherlock, this is impossible—I'm sorry but I will not suffer this. This is insane, this is intolerable."

 _Resistance._ John and Sherlock had been told by the doctor that this might come up. Though, he did say it would be an unconscious level. A kind of defense mechanism because the brain recognizes a threat. It should not be so.

"Mr. Holmes," began Dr. Hoffman again, "Your brother requested my help—"

"Is it why you flew all the way here from Germany? Not to worry, I can compensate all your troubles—"

"Mycroft," Sherlock put a firm hand on the top of his older brother's right knee. "It's okay."

"It's not okay." Mycroft frowned, "You believe this quack can help me? I've been like this for many years—even before you had acknowledged you had a brain—and you're telling me after twenty-five years this man can suddenly come out of the blue and claim to help me? This is illogical—this is unnecessary—!"

"Mr. Holmes, do you know why your brother called for me?" interrupted the German doctor before Sherlock could even speak. Mycroft let his sharp eyes fall on him.

"It would be fun to say I have no idea but my brother was being stupid. I have no desire to know."

"Can you not guess?"

"I never guess."

 _"Then it is you who are being illogical." *_ Reprimanded the doctor gently. "I've been told by your brother of how you have the superior brain. I only know your younger brother shortly and the aptitude of his brain has already astounded me. What more _you._ Is this the man whom I heard was behind the successful governance of Great Britain? Whose brain prowess surpasses that of Napoleon? I cannot help but feel disappointed, Mr. Holmes. For you to be subjugated but your desire to keep your problems to yourself, unable to acknowledge your own difficulty as well as continuously condemning those people who loved you enough to want to help you. Is this the works of the superior mind? Is this the man whom I've heard so much accolade from his admiring brother? You are doing these people injustice, sir."

Sherlock held his breath, and so did John. They had never heard anyone—aside from Mrs. Holmes— to give such a speech in the presence of Mycroft Holmes. And no one—no one had ever spoken to Mycroft like that. For a brief second, even John looked vigilantly at the consulting detective, as if afraid Mycroft might walk out. Then few seconds passed and no such event happened. Doctor Hoffmann did not remove his eyes from the older Holmes and the room was deathly silent.

Until Mycroft gave a rumbling sigh and shook his head. "This is senseless."

"You know it's not." The doctor, despite his size, moved quickly about and sat at the edge of the table just in front of Mycroft. Leaning forward with eyes bright and urgent, he spoke in a very calm voice, "You have recognized the power of your brain and that is a first step forward liberating yourself of its massive control. The brain indeed is very powerful that once you lose your hinges on its frame, it controls you. All we need, Mr. Holmes, is to make your subconscious be known. Of why it has decided to make an appearance. But bear in mind sir, that your subconscious is _not_ and never will be an enemy."

Mycroft slowly raised his eyes and met the doctor's eyes for the first time. Dr. Hoffman nodded.

"Your subconscious is merely representing what you have been keeping. It appearing substantially is only a mechanism to protect you. Otherwise, from what I have initially heard, your subconscious is acting on thoughts you have been resisting because the 'conscious' you find it _unthinkable._ Now if the motivation is so strong, the subconscious will find its way to make your body aware— from what I heard it is quite damaging. This is where my help comes in. If only you would allow me."

It took a minute for Mycroft to respond, and when he did nod his head, Sherlock slid an arm behind him and tapped his back. "You'll be okay, brother. I'll be here."

"Should I leave?" John said as he rose from the chair the moment the doctor went towards his bag and Sherlock ushered his brother towards the bed.

"No, it's quite alright." Mycroft whispered as Sherlock took off his elegant coat, leaving him only in his waistcoat. "You're family."

John and Sherlock exchange glances again and the consulting detective could not help but notice how best friend's ears went red. He quickly recovered as he was asked by the German doctor to close the curtains. So as Mycroft sat on the bed, John positioned himself at its foot while Sherlock stood at the other side of his brother with Doctor sitting at the edge, just beside the older Holmes who was looking weary at the physician.

"No stupid questions, Sherlock." Mycroft said to relieve the tension he was feeling.

"Oh, I would never ask who your first affair was and the history behind your ring. Though both would be interesting."

"Sherlock." John warned as the Doctor Hoffman gave the detective a raised of eyebrow. Sherlock pressed his lips closed again. When everything was settled and the room quite dark with only the side lamp on, they watched the German doctor drew a pocket watch that was already on his hand. It was an antique sort of watch, the kind you would see on shops with excellent price but it was obvious this one was an heirloom. Sherlock frowned upon seeing it as he recognized the initials while Mycroft himself looked unsurprised at the discovery.

"Now," Dr. Hoffman began, "I want you to sit straight and keep your eyes fixed on this."

He then commenced on swinging said object from its chain back and forth.

Both Sherlock and John would give each other glances when after a full two minutes, Mycroft's eyes remained following the pendulum. Both agreed that with Mycroft's brain, something so simple may not after all be affective. But then on the third minute, the older Holmes' eyelids began to fall and his shoulders hunched that by the end of the second, he sat on the bed with eyes quietly closed with all of them waiting for what will happen next.

Dr. Hoffman caught the watch and quietly hold it in his hands, his glasses flickering at the light of the lamp.

"Mycroft, do you hear me? Nod if you will."

Mycroft silently nodded. Sherlock stood tranced but kept his eyes at his brother.

"I will ask you some questions," his voice had gotten low and gentle, "I wish you to answer them honestly. When I snap my fingers, you will awaken and open your eyes. When this happens, you will not remember anything that has taken place while you are asleep. Do you understand?"

Again, Mycroft nodded. "Yes."

Dr. Hoffman gave Sherlock a look, "We are now speaking to his subconscious. May I proceed?"

Sherlock nodded. The German Doctor turned to Mycroft.

"When did you begin taking over his conscious state?"

"At the age of twenty-two."

Sherlock gasped but was halted further distraction with a raise of hand from Dr. Hoffman in his direction.

"Why?"

"Uncle Rudi died."

"Do you know how?"

Mycroft nodded. "He killed himself."

The three looked at one another. Then Dr. Hoffman leaned forward again. "Why did he kill himself?"

There was no response, but Sherlock noted the slight crease on his brother's brow.

"Eurus talked him to it." Came the soft answer that had Sherlock's mouth hanging open while John shot everyone a look of pure surprised. Only the doctor seemed collected at the piece of information.

"Eurus? Your sister?" he turned to Sherlock briefly who nodded, unable to keep his eyes away from his older brother. "Did you tell anyone?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"They also don't know."

"Why do you think it was Eurus who made him kill himself?"

"I was there when he shot his head. He told me his job was done. He wanted to be free."

Ringing silence flooded the room and Sherlock was no longer paying attention to the eyes looking his way. All he could see was how pale and shadowy his brother's figure had become, all he could see was the beads of perspiration on his brother's forehead. _All this time, no one knew…?_

Dr. Hoffmann tried again. "Does your conscious know that this happened?" Sherlock sharply glanced at him.

"Yes." Mycroft answered.

"Did he acknowledge it?"

"No."

"How did he respond?"

"He didn't want to."

"Do you blame your sister for his death?"

"Yes."

The German doctor sighed.

"How many times have you appeared in the past years?"

"Rarely after. Recently."

"When did the recent begin?"

"Eurus called me. We spoke."

At that, Sherlock had to look hard at his brother. "What does that mean?"

"What do you mean?" repeated the doctor.

"She called me. She said it was time we worked together. I gave her access to everything."

This statement had the whole room falling silent again. John was frowning at Sherlock too.

"Does that mean he helped—?"

"Shhh…" the German doctor halted them, his serious face magnifying the importance of every second. "I have been briefed about what happened in Sherrinford. Were you somehow involved?"

His answer was much anticipated. And then— _"Yes."_

John shut his eyes close and put both hands on the board at the foot of the bed with his head down. "I knew it! That's why we couldn't trace… or how else do we explain the billboard and motion grenade?" he threw his best friend a look, "Mycroft admitted he was the one who had it purchased! Why didn't we realize…?"

"I did." Sherlock admitted as he stared at his brother's face.

"You did—?" John whispered and the consulting detective looked at him.

"I realized if this was possible… then it means he had always been involved. Unconsciously."

 _"Oh, jesus…"_ John muttered.

Dr. Hoffmann waited for the whispers to subside, before turning to Mycroft again.

"Did he suspect that he was somehow involved?"

"No. He was unable to think it through."

"You made him ignore it?"

"He made himself ignore it."

"So then why have you appeared now? What do you want to happen?"

There was a ringing pause but the answer was none other than what they already know.

 _"Die."_

"Why?"

"My job is done."

"I see." Dr Hoffman nodded again, before turning to his patient, "Well, Mycroft. It should be known that you are quite needed. Your other sibling does not think your job is done."

"Other?" inquired the older Holmes with a slight raise of tone.

"Your brother, Sherlock."

"Sherlock." Mycroft repeated. "He is a grown-up now. He doesn't need me."

"Of course, I do!" Sherlock blurted out before anything else, his hands slamming down the side of the bed, his voice vibrating in all the corners of the room, rendering both doctors and even Mycroft silent. _"I need you!"_

Dr. Hoffman put a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder and nodded his head, before giving his attention to the patient again.

"Your brother claims he needs you. No one in this room thinks you should go."

He was greeted with silence, Sherlock's eyes transfixed at his older brother who somehow, deep in his mind, had come to terms that he was no longer needed—that everything has to end. The German doctor waited till the consulting detective had straightened up and was calm again.

"It's okay now, Mycroft." Dr. Hoffman said softly, "You can sleep now. I will wake you up shortly, please sleep. You will remember nothing of this exchange when you wake up, do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Very good. Now sleep."

Mycroft lay limp on the bed and after a few seconds of watching him, Dr. Hoffmann quickly rose from the bed and met the two gentlemen at the foot of it, his eyes wandering back to his patient.

"Well, there's the root of it. This Uncle Rudi, was he a close relative?" he threw the question at the younger Holmes.

"He was his mentor." Sherlock answered with a glance at John, "They were supposed to be close… or that's what Mycroft wanted me to believe. He followed the man's every footstep."

"You have no encounter of him?"

"None that I consider that matters."

"And this Eurus? You told me she's suffering from mental genius?"

"Yes. It's a very complicated case."

"She tried to kill us too." John answered with a shake of his head.

"Mycroft has been taking care of Eurus since she was diagnosed of psychosis. He and Uncle Rudi worked together to… take care of her case. I didn't hear anything about Uncle Rudi dying. Somehow, Mycroft had me thinking he was inconsequential."

"He hid a relative's death not once, but of someone he's truly taken." Dr. Hoffmann crossed his arms, "He saw him die, he shot his head. It explains his insistence on dying by his heart as you told me. He's pushed everything in his subconscious. Especially when he said the conscious him did not want to deal with it, and deal with it means an emotional expression or even acknowledgement. He is susceptible to the control of much misuse subconscious as he never admitted feeling these things to himself."

"He clamped when David shot his head." John mentioned with heavy eyes, "I've never seen him vomit before. I thought he was just too… sensitive. I forgot he was never anywhere near that as long as I know him."

"That explains one thing," Sherlock sighed, "and explains why he wanted to donate his brain."

"Do we tell him that he was partly responsible to the release of Eurus in the world?" John asked him.

They looked at the doctor who shook his head. "That is the same as telling him we know of the death of your Uncle Rudi which is by far the only reason why this man here is suicidal. The lost of his most admired one to suicide makes his subconscious reflect the idea that it too is ready to die. Death is by own hand, he understands it as this, while the conscious mind of Mycroft disagrees: I take it a reasonable man like him would detest the idea of suicide. It's a battle within one's mind. We can help him resolved it, but it does not include directly telling him what we have found."

"So, what's the point of this if we cannot tell him?" John crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at the doctor who masterfully looked him in the eye and smiled a little.

"Our main purpose it to know the depth of his unconscious mind—of whether or not we can reach it and find its roots. We did. And Sherlock here has made it very clear that his older brother's purpose is not yet done. If this has been affirmed in his subconscious, then I can honestly tell you that our work here is done. Though it will not erase what has already happened, it is sure to make him agree with his conscious level this time and avoid any trigger for the subconscious to think it needs to act."

By this time, Sherlock was already facing the bed again where his brother was still lying fast asleep.

"So, there will be no more awakening of his other self this time? He's okay? No more eyepatched man in the suit?"

"He still needs the therapy if he allows it." Dr. Hoffmann offered in all honesty. "He has suffered a mental trauma. His consciousness would find it hard to trust itself. But I daresay… you can do something about it this time?"

Sherlock didn't answer as the doctor snapped his fingers and Mycroft's eyelids slowly opened.

There were plenty of things he wished to talk about with his sibling. Things he never thought they needed talking. Come to think of it, he realized the only thing they do whenever they were together were the constant banter and fit of words no ordinary human would understand. Thinking about it, it was Mycroft who conditioned Sherlock to such a fashion, it was Mycroft who began their common game _Deduction Game._ Lacing it as a tool to sharpen Sherlock's observation, the younger Holmes could not help but wonder if his brother was merely distracting him.

Distracting him from many things as Mycroft had distracted himself.

They never spoke of Uncle Rudi, except constant recall of his name whenever they insulted each other. They never spoke of each other's emotions for both deluded themselves in believing they don't have the sort of mechanism, which in fact was untrue. They never spoke of each other's affairs—though it was easily noticeable once they see each other.

They never had a healthy relationship. There was nothing there.

Yet, Sherlock abhorred the thought of his older brother dying. It was never a constant thought five years ago, but losing him now felt like he was going to be reduced to pieces. Because make no mistake—his older brother had never told him anything because Mycroft was protecting him. In his own way of looking at the world, seeing a fragile little brother, Sherlock couldn't help blaming himself for being the ignorant fool. But it was a limitation that had been set ever since Eurus' incident. He doesn't blame her. He just wished he could have been much stable person before, a kind of man Mycroft Holmes could have trusted all those years and not the ticking bomb everyone used to believe.

He cringed as he remembered Mycroft's voice while hypnotized: ' _He told me his job was done. He wanted to be free.'_

Does Mycroft think he has been shackled by his circumstance too?

Anyone would think so and many would run away. Mycroft didn't because he tried so hard to be the responsible brother—the strong one. But it was not a charade.

He was strong. He tried. For so long.

Seeing his older brother open his eyes, Sherlock immediately found his place beside the bed while John and Dr. Hoffman excused themselves out.

"Mycroft." His voice could never be any gentler.

The older Holmes found his eyes and it lit with recognition.

"What happened?" he whispered, blinking, then as if the memory came rushing back to the moment before he was made to sleep, his eyes flickered in bemusement, but there was no sign of anything tragic there. "Did you find anything interesting inside my head?"

"Nothing remotely interesting." Sherlock sighed with a smirk. "It was a terrible place to peek in, like watching you in the bath while naked."

Mycroft smiled grimly. "Should I sue your doctor friend?"

Sherlock grinned, but something else was already in his mind. There was this sudden responsibility he needed to do. He needed to secure Mycroft's capacity to remember and to understand. But especially, the perfect time to mention it: Uncle Rudi's death. Sooner or later they have to discuss it. He just wondered when without jeopardizing Mycroft's mental health.

Then it came to him how he had slipped in Mycroft's shoes—of being the responsible brother that has to check with _trigger words_ whether his sibling was apt to talk about the memory or not.

He didn't think it required this patience. He always thought Mycroft was only bullying him.

"Hey, Mycroft." He called suddenly.

"Don't hey me in such an informal way… you know I never had a liking for things informal." Mycroft straightened up on his sitting position and rubbed the back of his neck. "What's the matter?" he asked when he noticed the younger Holmes watching him eagerly.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, before realizing it was not about him anymore.

"You are _strong,_ Mycroft. One of the strongest people I know and it's only right to believe that you are."

That earned him a threatening raise of eyebrow.

"I really should have that doctor arrested after all. I'm calling my security—!"

Sherlock's smile turned upside down. No, there was no easy way for this man to understand _love._

"You're going to get John arrested."

"He's the one I want arrested."

"Why would you have my best friend arrested?"

"Because he's let you stay here in my house for a prolong of time and I do not appreciate it—"

"Who says I wanted to stay here for so long?" Sherlock looked scandalized but not as scandalized as his older brother who was following the pattern of brotherly sentiment and seemed to be rejecting it. But Sherlock could only believe otherwise as Mycroft went on—

"You praising me is enough to make me believe I have been threatened with your presence— that's it, you're overstaying. Get out!"

"You're not making any sense."

"Go back to 221B!"

"I most certainly will not! I find your fireplace quite pleasant."

Mycroft's eyes widened. " _I knew it! You were only saying this because my house makes you comfortable! Forget it! I know how your brain works! You are not living with me!"_

 _"I did not suggest I would—"_

 _"But you were thinking it—"_

Sherlock paused, then had to nod. "What's wrong with having your brother in your house!? You just got released from the hospital!"

 _"_ No. That would only encourage you to stay _. Get out!"_

 _"Mycroft—you deluded old fool! I won't be moving anywhere! I will stay here as long as I'm needed!"_

 _"Who needs you!?"_

 _"Well, I need you."_

 _"You—"_ something seemed to light up in the older Holmes eyes as something in the back of his mind reminded him of something, he could not quite put his hand to. _"Stop saying that or I won't be able to get rid of you!"_

"You won't need too. Now, I'm out. And if you need me—I'll be in my room."

 _"Sherlock—"_

"Good night, Mycroft. I'll see you later."

 _"I thought I was the one who got hypnotized!? What have those doctors done to you?"_ was Mycroft's concerned yowl.

* * *

 **The End- Thank you for sailing with us :)**


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